


Renegades

by augustbird



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M, The Reichenbach Fall, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:03:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augustbird/pseuds/augustbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes takes down Moriarty’s syndicate.  He also takes John Watson with him.  AU of <i>The Reichenbach Fall</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Отступники](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5023699) by [EugeniaB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EugeniaB/pseuds/EugeniaB), [smiling_fox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smiling_fox/pseuds/smiling_fox)



> This will be the only author’s note in the entire piece so please excuse the length.  
> From a word-count perspective, this piece is definitely my longest. And from a plot perspective, probably also the most intensive. And believe it or not, this was the very first fic longfic I tried to write in this fandom. This fic has the following people to thank:  
> [Paitac](http://paitac.livejournal.com/profile) was the person who conceived of this idea and expressed it in a comment to me days after Reichenbach aired. The thought of these two traveling the world and kicking ass would not leave me alone after, so I stole her idea and created an absolute monstrosity out of it.  
> [Mar](http://alcott.tumblr.com/) for being the best Spanish consultant a writer could ever ask for. <33  
> [Lulu](http://anonbegone.livejournal.com/profile), as always, for kicking out my Americanisms and making sure I don’t embarrass myself in public, and for being the best beta in the world. <33  
> And last but absolutely not least: [Courtni](http://victortrevor.tumblr.com/) and [Robin](http://cowls.tumblr.com/) who listened to me whine my way through sorting out the issues between these two idiots, patiently endured my raging erection for all things organic chemistry, and enthusiastically cheered me on as I stumbled my way towards the finish line. This fic would absolutely not exist if not for them and I am grateful every day that they exist in my life.

“We’re going to need to coordinate.”

Sherlock lifts his wrist. John wraps a hand around the cold iron bar before hauling himself up. He’s heavier than his muscle memory remembers. A year ago he would have climbed over the fence with no problem.

He hits the concrete and they’re off again, the shapes of their shadows climbing over dimly lit alleyways. John doesn’t know where they’re going but he trusts Sherlock so he doesn’t waste breath on asking.

_____

The homeless man digs through the contents of his stolen trolley while Sherlock sends off a series of texts. John lets his wrist hang limp against Sherlock’s arm, his breath misting in the cold night air underneath the bridge where they’ve paused. It smells like abandoned rubbish and mildew.

“Found it here,” the homeless man says as he pulls a rusty hacksaw from underneath a pair of tattered trousers and a collection of half torn paperbacks, “It’s a little dull.”

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock says not taking his eyes off his phone. After a moment, John realizes that Sherlock’s not going to take the proffered tool so he gives a tight smile to the man who’s helping them and takes it himself.

“Would you do the honours?” Sherlock demands. Of course. John pulls the handcuff chain taut and starts to saw. The sound of metal whining against metal makes him grit his teeth but he manages to cut through the chain and then carefully through the circle of metal around his wrist. He’s in the middle of bending the cuff to get it off his arm when Sherlock finally looks up.

“What’s the plan, then?” John asks, handing over the hacksaw.

Sherlock doesn’t take it. He looks at John’s face and hesitates before asking, “Would you come with me, John?”

“Yes,” John answers without thinking, “Of course. Where to?”

_____

They get on the tube and don’t talk for the rest of the trip. John taps his fingers against his leg and resists the urge to press Sherlock for answers. They get farther and farther away from London proper. When John finally turns to Sherlock to ask where it is, exactly, that they’re going, Sherlock stands up and they exit at Wembley Central.

Sherlock gestures for John to keep up and sweeps down the street with a singular determination. John shoves his hands into his pockets and hurries after him.

They turn left into a neighbourhood and John starts to wonder who Sherlock knows here, considering his self-professed lack of friends. Sherlock looks at the numbers on each house before he pauses in front of one and then looks at John. “Don’t speak unless I address you.”

John wishes that he still had his gun. He nods.

Sherlock looks at him for another moment before he turns and rings the doorbell. There’s the creak of the floorboards behind the door and then the scrape of a chain drawn across the latch. The door opens and a thin looking man with wild tufts of red hair and pale protruding eyes stares out at them.

“What’s this?” he asks, jabbing a finger at John, “You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone.”

“A colleague,” Sherlock answers, “He is with me. I assure you he is to be trusted.”

The man assesses John for a moment before he shrugs and lets them in. The thud of electronic music reverberates from somewhere above them. The red-haired man opens a door to their right and Sherlock slips in. John has no choice but to follow.

The room is cluttered with takeaway boxes and broken game controllers. It smells of body odour and stale smoke. The man gestures for them to sit on the stained sofa. Sherlock remains standing so John doesn’t sit either.

“I’d offer you some tea,” the man says as he moves things around in his kitchen, “But I don’t have any. Got lots of caffeine though. I ship in these five-hour energy shots, they’re excellent, really—” He stops as he looks up at Sherlock. “You’re in a hurry?”

“Let’s talk business, Cleese,” Sherlock replies.

“Yes yes, business,” Cleese agrees, tapping a cigarette out into the palm of his hands, “It’s been a bit difficult, these last few years, with your big brother pulling so many of my clients and all. And you, Sherlock—” He lights the cigarette, breathes in, and exhales smoke on his next words, “You helping him. I thought we had a little honour among old friends.”

“I have the money.”

“I know you do,” Cleese says with a smile, “You’re lucky I don’t throw you out on your arse, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Can you do it?”

“Store opens at eight,” Cleese says, “Previous client left behind a pair of scissors.”

_____

Sherlock makes a stop at a self storage before they go to the store. He unlocks a mailbox-sized box and pulls out all of the contents: a box and an ancient Nokia phone. The box contains a stack of hundred pound notes.

“One of the many remainders from a rather dark period of my life,” Sherlock says, barely glancing at John’s expression, “I’m sure you remember that I indulged in rather distasteful habits during my youth.”

“Expecting to buy quite a bit, then?” John means for it to come out dry but he can’t keep the incredulity from his voice.

“Buy?” Sherlock sounds amused, “The drugs trafficked into this country are frankly shit. Before Mycroft caught me, I found a niche in this market.”

“Ah,” John says. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised at all.

“Pity I couldn’t have stashed these overseas,” Sherlock says as he shuts the box, “Come along, John.”

_____

John would have asked for an apron but he doubts that Cleese would have one. Instead, he gets Sherlock’s hair all over his shoes as he tries to trim the nape of Sherlock’s neck into something resembling a decent haircut.

“Don’t fuss over it too much,” Sherlock says as he fills out paperwork for Cleese on the bathroom sink. Half of the pages are wet and the ink fuzzes. “Just transport, remember?”

“I’d rather it not look like shit,” John says, pushing his fingers through the now-short hair at the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock grunts and tilts his head back a little, into John’s hand. John stills and doesn’t breathe for a moment.

“Transport,” Sherlock repeats, scrawling elegant loops onto the wet paper.

Later when John’s working the foul-smelling dye into Sherlock’s hair over the mouldy bathtub, Sherlock opens his eyes, peers up into John’s face, and says, “I’m making the right decision, aren’t I? Bringing you along?”

John keeps brushing. “You need someone to watch your back.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees and closes his eyes again.

_____

It takes Cleese a day and a half to piece together the full set of documentation that Sherlock wants. Sherlock sleeps in thirty-minute snatches on the sofa while John dozes in an uncomfortable chair, his shoulder stiff whenever he wakes. Cleese walks in and out of the apartment on a regular basis, littering empty bottles of five-hour energy wherever he goes. He talks to himself, muttering about metallic inks and paper as he chain smokes in the kitchen and scribbles down lists.

John leaves once, to pick up bread, ham, and cheese from the shop down the street. He makes three sandwiches. He eats one and Sherlock begrudgingly eats half of the second before firing up the Nokia and stepping outside to make a call. Cleese doesn’t appear from his room long enough to notice the third.

By four in the afternoon, a full day after they arrived, Cleese finally sits on the sofa that Sherlock has vacated and packs a bowl. John looks up from the newspaper he’s borrowed (stolen) from Cleese’s neighbour just as Cleese tilts his head back and blows a smoke ring.

“I’ve seen your blog,” Cleese says, taking another hit. His eyes are bloodshot and his hair sticks up even more wildly, “Dr. Watson, is it?”

John sees no point in lying. “Yes.”

Cleese props his feet up on the coffee table, old candy wrappers crinkling under his shoes, “There’s a warrant out for both your arrests. Saw the article about how he’s a fraud.”

John folds the newspaper that he’s reading. He hadn’t read past the headline on the first page because he had been too angry.

“I don’t believe it,” Cleese adds, “Sherlock was always a prick, but he’s always been smart as fuck. Not a bloody clue as to how he managed to stay alive for so long. Pissed off all his dealers.”

“You knew him then,” John says.

“I knew him,” Cleese agrees, taking another hit, “Intense. Intensely suicidal in a way that only adrenaline junkies can be. He’s mellowed out. Got soft.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard anyone describe him that way.”

“You should have seen him back then,” Cleese says with a smile full of teeth.

_____

John turns his mobile back on the night before they leave and sees that he’s missed almost a hundred calls and over fifty texts. There are seventeen new voicemail messages.

“John?” Harry answers when he calls, “Are you okay? Where are you? I’ve been worried sick. You and Sherlock, you’ve been all over the news.”

“I’m fine,” John says, “We’re okay, Harry.”

“What’s going on?”

He’s practised this conversation in his head five times already, but his mind keeps getting stuck on the fact that this might be the last time that he would ever get to talk to her. There are too many things that he wants to say, too many things that he doesn’t know how to articulate.

But eventually he makes an effort to keep his voice steady when he says, “I think I’m going to be unavailable for a little bit. But when I get the chance to call you, I promise I will.”

“What are you doing—where are you going?”

“Just for a little bit,” John says, trying to sound reassuring, “I’m leaving with Sherlock. We’re going underground, just for a little bit.”

“John.” She hasn’t used that tone of voice since they were teenagers and she had been terrified of coming out to their parents, “You—what are you—” He hears a sharp intake of breath and she steadies her voice, “Okay, John. Please—be careful. Stay safe.”

“I love you,” John says because he doesn’t say it enough.

“If you don’t come back alive, I’m going to kill you,” Harry says and John appreciates her bravado, loves his sister more than he ever has in that moment.

_____

John picks out new outfits from the department store because Sherlock cannot colour coordinate worth shit when he doesn’t have a wardrobe of dark colours to choose from. Sherlock pays for everything in cash.

John shrugs on a sports jacket over a U2 band t-shirt and a too-tight pair of jeans and rubs at the stubble on his chin. It itches but he’s planning to grow a beard instead of dying his hair like Sherlock. It must be working because he’s already starting to look like somebody else.

They drive to Ipswich to meet the sea freight that Sherlock’s arranged for them to leave on. John doesn’t know if he wants to be in a vehicle steered by an obviously intoxicated Cleese but Sherlock’s expression is tight and he keeps looking at his phone. He bought John a new mobile too, and John had been on edge the entire time that Sherlock recited their new identities to the phone saleswoman.

“Do you know, I’m half a year clean?” Cleese says as they weave back into the left lane, “I mean, obviously not everything—but, the hard stuff—”

“Can you just drive?” Sherlock snaps, and then, “Please.” His shoulders are hunched and John can see a patch of hair at the back of his head that is darker than the rest of it. John resists the urge to reach forward and run his fingers through it. Sherlock’s hair had been soft under his hands when he had cut it and now he’s caught between wanting to touch it again and realizing exactly how inappropriate that is.

Cleese shuts up. And later, when he stops the car near the docks, Sherlock leaves him with twelve hundred and says, “I am indebted to you.”

“Good luck, Sherlock,” Cleese says with a smile that looks tired and maybe a little bit fond. His eyes are unfocused as he looks back at John with a nod, and then he drives away.

Then it’s just Sherlock and John standing at the side of the road.

_____

“Sherlock,” John says when they’re leaning against the railing and the English Channel swells beneath then, “If I’m to help you, we need to be on the same page.”

Sherlock turns to look at him.

“If you’ve got a plan, I need to know.”

Sherlock looks back at the waves over the side of the ship and grips the railing.

“I deduce things, John,” Sherlock says, “I observe and I react.”

John isn’t sure how to respond to that.

“When I was twenty-six and incorrigibly stubborn, Cleese and this freight—this was my plan for escaping Mycroft and taking my—” Sherlock shrugs, a fluid movement of his shoulders, “—business overseas. And beyond this, I have nothing but the barest skeleton of an idea.”

John steps closer, moving in so that his arm is pressed against Sherlock’s. He’s warm underneath the jacket and the night is cold.

“Well,” John says, “Safety first. Where do we find a small arms dealer?”

_____

John is half certain that the receptionist in the hotel lobby is going to see through their counterfeit passports. He keeps his expression neutral and lets Sherlock answer when she asks if they want a single or a double. The couple in the elevator speak rapidly in Dutch and John can’t read any of the advertisements pasted on the wall. He realizes that maybe he’s going to have to adjust to never fully understanding his surroundings and it’s Afghanistan all over again.

“I have a source here,” Sherlock says as he deposits the messenger bag that he bought back in Wembley, “I’ll see if I can get some answers. I’ll be back before morning.”

“Let me come with you,” John says.

“My source is a bit twitchy,” Sherlock replies, hand on the doorknob, “I don’t think he’d be open to meeting someone he doesn’t already know. I’ll be back before morning.”

After Sherlock closes the door, John splashes water on his face. He sits at the end of his bed and tries to connect his new phone to the hotel’s wifi network. 

He makes an effort not to think about how Sherlock might have a gun to his head or a knife to his throat in some dark alleyway. He has to trust that Sherlock knows what he’s doing, that he’ll find some way to outsmart whoever or whatever might threaten him. He runs a hand over his face, scrubbing briefly at his jaw where it itches and thinks that he’s going to have to get used to this again, this anxiety of waiting.

He remembers the name from the article that the Riley woman wrote and types “Richard Brook” into the search bar when his phone finally connects.

When Moriarty’s smiling face appears on the tiny screen, John nearly flings his phone at the wall in anger.

_____

John wakes when he hears the whirr of the door unlocking. The room is illuminated briefly with the hallway light before darkness swallows everything again. The bathroom door shuts and a sliver of light appears under the door. The shower turns on and John closes his eyes, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. 

_____

“Moriarty was that reporter woman’s source,” John says over their breakfast of dry toast and coffee.

“Of course,” Sherlock says, “I expected it.”

“The things she wrote—I mean, the things he knew,” John begins, “How—?”

“Mycroft cannot be trusted,” Sherlock says and looks away.

John knows when to stop pressing.

_____

They fly standby to Philadelphia. John sits next to a woman who cradles a baby to her shoulder with one arm and tries to keeps her two year old toddler from putting things into his mouth with the other. He smiles when she catches his eyes.

“They seem to be quite a handful,” John says as her son pulls apart the packaging on the cheap airline headphones and stuffs half of it in his mouth. She pulls at his wrist, tsking.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice heavily accented, “We’re probably the last passengers you want to sit next to.”

John thinks about how he and Sherlock are fugitives on the run from the law and realizes, _not quite_.

_____

Sherlock touches his elbow in the corridor leading to the waiting area just as they disembark. John grips his fake passport tight and nearly jumps when Sherlock passes him. For a moment he doesn’t recognize the other man with his auburn hair cropped short and the slouching way that he carries himself.

“I’ll contact my lead,” Sherlock murmurs close to his ear, fingers pressed to the inside of John’s elbow, “Exchange two thousand and we’ll do the rest later.” He pulls off the messenger bag and slips it onto John’s shoulder.

John catches Sherlock’s wrist just as Sherlock turns away. “Firearms.”

“Of course,” Sherlock tugs his arm away, “I know. I’ll come find you when I’m done.”

_____

Sherlock’s contact tells them to come to an abandoned parking love near the Delaware River on the south side of Philadelphia. The cab driver looks at them in the rearview mirror but doesn’t ask any questions. John fumbles with the cash when it comes time to pay and has to check the numbers in the corner before handing them over.

A short Hispanic man smokes a cigarette against the side of an old sedan as he watches them approach.

“Marco?” Sherlock asks. He sounds calm but John can feel how tense he is from a few feet away.

“Sherlock,” Marco replies, pulling keys out of his pocket, “Dutch told me about you.”

He walks around to the back of his car, cigarette still dangling from his right hand. He unlocks the boot and nods, “He said you’d be good for it.”

“John,” Sherlock says, eyes on Marco. John steps toward the back of the car and looks down at the selection of guns.

“They’re good guns,” Marco says, still looking at Sherlock even as John picks up a Browning, “Unidentifiable.”

It’s not the same as a Sig but Marco doesn’t have any Sigs. John puts it down and picks up a Ruger.

“Throw in some bullets for free.”

John sets down the Ruger and closes in on the Glock. “How much?”

“Five hundred.”

John looks at Sherlock. Sherlock doesn’t take his eyes off Marco but nods, once.

“Okay,” John says, “How many rounds?”

“Two hundred.”

Silence. Marco blows a smoke ring at Sherlock.

“That’s fine,” John says eventually. Sherlock blinks. John digs into his pocket for the cash.

“There’s two of you,” Marco points out as he takes the money.

“We only need one,” Sherlock says, and then, “Thank you.”

“Good doing business,” Marco says, thumbing through the notes before he shuts the boot. John tucks the gun inside his jacket.

_____

“You keep it,” Sherlock says when John tries to hand him the gun, “You have more experience with it than I do.”

John hesitates before tucking it back into his jacket, “This means I’m not leaving you alone, Sherlock.”

“Of course,” Sherlock murmurs.

_____

They rent a studio flat on the second floor, two streets off the blue line in North Philadelphia. John watches a cockroach scuttle in the shadow of the natural gas stove while Sherlock signs a half-year lease with his fake name. It isn’t until the landlord leaves with four-hundred fifty in cash that John tries to flick on the stove and realizes that half of the burners don’t work.

John turns on the faucet and the entire sink shivers before puffing stale air against the rusted steel. “Makes you miss Baker Street.”

Sherlock opens the fridge and wrinkles his nose as the smell of rotten eggs rolls out. He shuts it and moves to shove his hands into the pockets of the coat he no longer possesses. He walks toward the door, “I need a laptop.”

_____

John leaves Sherlock in the electronics and goes to buy blankets and extra underwear and socks. After looking at the inflatable mattresses for three minutes, he finally pulls one off the shelf and heads off in search of duct tape.

“Five hundred,” Sherlock says when he finds John picking up bleach and sponges in the cleaning aisle. “That’s the cheapest for a decent laptop.”

“I hope you like beans,” John replies without looking up from the dish soap.

_____

The 57 bus line takes them from the store to an intersection two streets from their flat. Sherlock at least has the decency to help carry the things up the stairs before pulling open the box to get his laptop and telling John, “Saw a coffee shop with free wifi.” He exits within minutes and John is left with plastic bags on the dirty kitchen floor and a headache already building.

He pulls the gun out from his jacket and sets it on the kitchen counter. He looks at it a moment and considers following Sherlock.

They haven’t done anything. Not yet. No reason for anyone on this side of the world to even suspect who they are.

John uncaps the bleach and heads into the bathroom.

_____

John stares at the cracked glass of the window and listens to the rustle of mice scavenging through the plastic bags they’ve left on the counters. The subway line runs above ground on a bridge half a street away and he can hear the night trains rumble past. It’s hot, a sticky sort of humid, and the entire flat stinks of mildew and bleach. John can feel the sweat dampening the collar of his shirt and the nape of his neck, seeping into the wadded clothes he’s using for a pillow.

Sherlock sleeps next to him on the air mattress, turned so that his back is to John. He curls in on himself when he sleeps and John half wishes that Sherlock was turned towards him so he could see his face in the dark. The blanket John bought forms a rumpled barrier between the two of them—it’s too hot.

John keeps a hand on the gun and even though he’s exhausted, doesn’t sleep. He breathes into the heavy air and waits for something to happen.


	2. Chapter 2

The restaurant has a single silver butter knife painted onto the glass of the front door. It leads to dark hardwood flooring with white tablecloth against dark furniture. John feels self conscious from the way that the hostess looks at his thrift store jeans.

“I have a meeting with Jameson,” Sherlock says.

“I’m sorry, he’s at a different establishment today.”

Sherlock looks at her. “I think not,” he says, “I think he’s in the back of this particular one right now and I think it would be in your best interest that you tell him that Vernet requests an audience. Next time I won’t do him the courtesy of entering through the front door—and I might make a stop to tell your line-cook boyfriend that you’ve been sleeping with the runners.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” John says, watching her hurry into the back.

“You’re right,” Sherlock says, flipping through the ledgers at the abandoned podium, “We could have just left.”

“Left?” John glances over his shoulder at the street, “I thought you needed this job?”

Sherlock leans on the podium and watches the hostess re-emerge from the kitchen doors. “If I played my cards right, my reputation should precede me.”

_____

Jameson looks a bit like a walrus with his handlebar moustache and tiny eyes—maybe something like John’s perceived stereotype of a chef if not for the old woman assembling AK47’s in the corner of his office. The smell of shellfish and old sweat wafts in through the open door. Someone is blasting Metallica in the kitchen and it’s hard to hear the man over the music.

He laughs when he sees Sherlock. He never looks at John once.

“This is precious,” Jameson says, “You disappear for almost a decade and still think that you’re relevant?”

Sherlock crosses his arms.

“They say you reformed,” Jameson continues, “I don’t like ex-criminals.”

“I came to you because I was told that you were a businessman,” Sherlock replies.

Jameson laughs. The old woman in the corner looks up and laughs along with Jameson, squinting at John through the milky cataracts in her eyes. Her teeth are grey stumps in the pale red of her mouth.

“You come to me,” Jameson says, “With no money, no equipment, and no sample. You come to me with nothing but your outdated name and you think that I’ll, what? Take you on your word and let you come work for me?” He spreads his hands, “For all I know, you’re one of his pretenders.”

John glances at Sherlock. Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change a bit.

“I am a businessman,” Jameson says, “And I don’t operate on good faith. You disrespect me by showing up with nothing.”

Sherlock spreads his hands and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. My apologies.”

_____

Sherlock sits on the toilet with his laptop and smokes out the barely propped window. The scent of smoke mingles with the bleach John used to scrub the tub and drifts out the door into the main area of their flat. The living room window has been sealed shut with paint and the broken blinds provide little relief against the fading sunlight. John is stripped down to his undershirt, stirring discount pasta in a small pot.

John is using a plastic fork to ladle out portions of penne when Sherlock emerges from the bathroom, laptop tucked under his arm. “I’ll need a thousand,” Sherlock says as John cuts open a can of diced tomatoes with his pocketknife.

“Only for a really good reason,” John replies, scooping out the tomato, “You might have noticed that we don’t really have an income right now.”

Sherlock takes the bowl that John hands him without complaint and goes back into the bathroom with the food and his laptop. John spears a piece of pasta and puts it into his mouth just as Sherlock yells, “I need you to find me a table for under thirty dollars!”

_____

John spends ten minutes single-handedly dragging a wooden table up two flights of stairs into their flat. There’s barely enough space for the table and the air mattress, even when John shoves the table up against the kitchen wall. He wipes it down with disinfectant and wonders where Sherlock has gone.

“Good,” is the only thing that Sherlock says when he shoulders the door open with a cardboard box in his arms. John looks up from where he had been snooping around on Sherlock’s laptop.

“Did you read the papers I had pulled up, then?” Sherlock asks, not even looking in John’s direction. He pulls out a conical glass flask from the box.

“Please tell me you didn’t steal those,” John says, getting to his feet.

“It’s not like the university would even miss it,” Sherlock replies, “Sunk costs. Do you know how many students break fractionating columns every day?”

“How did you even—?”

“John,” Sherlock says as he pulls out a condensor and plastic tubing, “Don’t ask questions when you would prefer not to know the answers.”

John leans against the edge of the table, “I left your dinner in the fridge. I bought a second-hand microwave. You can heat it up.”

Sherlock pauses and glances in the direction of the kitchen counter, “Good.”

“Do you need any help?”

Sherlock sets a heating mantle on the table and looks up at John, “There are some things I need to pick up.”

_____

They take the regional rail out to East Falls where Sherlock checks the map he scrawled onto the back of a napkin. John has two duffel bags slung across his chest.

“This way,” Sherlock says, peering up at the street signs. The afternoon sun makes heat waves shimmer off the pavement. The straps of the bags dig into John’s shoulders and keeps his sweat pressed against his skin.

Their destination is a respectable looking house on a tree-lined street. John looks at the neatly trimmed rose bushes in the front yard and thinks about the weight of the gun in his back pocket. A middle-aged man with a goatee and thin-framed glasses opens the door.

“Hello,” Sherlock says, “I emailed you earlier about your wares.”

Forty minutes later, they’re back on the regional rail, duffel bags weighed down with reagents that Sherlock deemed necessary for his reactions. John carries a plastic gallon jug of glacial acetic acid in each hand and keeps his eyes either on Sherlock or looking straight ahead.

John knows it will fade with time, but he is a little thrilled at the way that nobody notices.

_____

It takes John almost an hour but he cuts away enough of the paint that he manages to get the living room window open. But even with two windows open, the air doesn’t circulate well inside the flat. The kitchen window opens to the wall of the building next to them, close enough that John could reach out and touch the weather-worn brick if he wanted.

“Any leads?” John asks. Sherlock sits on the closed toilet, computer on his lap and one hand out the window with a cigarette between his fingers. John hates it but they can’t afford nicotine patches without a steady income—nor can they afford for Sherlock to lose his focus.

“Plenty,” Sherlock replies as he jabs at the keyboard, “For compounds that have no relevance to what I need to synthesize.”

“It’s just that we’re—”

“Yes,” Sherlock snaps. When he lifts his eyes to look at John, his voice is softer, “Yes, I know John.”

_____

John follows Sherlock to a small hardware store where Sherlock picks up PVC piping and valves. The cashier looks up from her magazine when Sherlock sets them on the counter and says, “I’m also here to pick up something else.”

She tosses her magazine aside and looks Sherlock up and down, “You’ll be Vernet, then.” She looks at John but doesn’t seem to register him as a threat by the way that her eyes slide back to Sherlock.

She rings up the piping and bags it, not saying another word except for the total owed. Sherlock hands over the money wordlessly.

“What was that?” John asks once they’re half a street away. Sherlock reaches into the plastic bag and pulls out a pouch—a tiny bag of white stuff. John closes a hand around his wrist and keeps his eyes forward, “Forget I asked, let’s not draw attention to it.”

Sherlock closes his fingers around it. John lets go of his wrist. Sherlock slips it into his pocket.

“Sherlock,” John says, “How exactly were you planning to test the quality of your product?”

Sherlock looks up at the buildings that they are passing. John stops and grabs the back of his elbow. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock stops and looks over his shoulder at John. He doesn’t answer straight away. “I have no intention of relapsing, if that is what you’re asking.”

“This is serious, Sherlock,” John says.

“I know.”

“I worry about you.”

Sherlock pauses before attempting a smile, “I know.”

_____

John opens his eyes at three in the morning and hears Sherlock washing out his glassware in the sink. The sour smell of acid has not yet been pulled through the open window. He hears the gurgle of the electric kettle—Sherlock must be making himself another cup of instant coffee.

John sits up and Sherlock looks over at him as he pours steaming water into a mug.

“You should sleep,” John says.

“Can’t,” Sherlock says.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“I’m not as skilled at this as I was a decade ago,” Sherlock mutters, spooning instant coffee powder into the water and stirring. The plastic spoon warps from the heat and the force but Sherlock drops it back into the sink anyway. He looks at his setup and absentmindedly takes a sip before hissing and setting the mug aside.

“At this point,” John says, “You’d probably do loads better if you sleep for a couple of hours.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock replies, “I need a cigarette. I need my violin.”

“You can’t focus because you’re exhausted.”

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock says, but there’s no real heat behind his words, “Go back to sleep.”

John sighs and reaches for Sherlock’s laptop.

_____

“The stuff you sent,” the man behind the desk says as he cuts lines on the glass top, “It was good. Real good. Better than the stuff that was down in Baltimore a year back.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on the man’s face. John is all too aware of the two goons who stand at the office door, who both carry firearms and took his gun even before he set foot into the building. He makes sure to keep behind Sherlock so that he can easily pivot and they can cover each other’s backs, just in case.

“You made this with the stuff we push?”

Sherlock nods.

“What do you cut it with? What’s the special ingredient?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. John keeps his eyes on the guards. The man behind the desk laughs.

“Vernet. I’ve heard of the name. I always thought it was an urban legend,” the man says. He leans back in his chair and eyes Sherlock speculatively. “I heard you were looking for work,” he rolls a ten dollar bill between his fingertips and lowers his head towards the lines on the table, “Heard you went to Jameson first.”

He pauses, looks at Sherlock as if expecting a reply. Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

“No,” the man decides, “You come work for me.”

_____

His name is Anthony and he runs a local crime ring. He tells them that he doesn’t trust outsiders—which is why it’s such an honour that he trusts Sherlock enough to give him a three thousand dollar advance to cut three hundred grams of cocaine with whatever Sherlock was synthesizing.

Anthony likes to keep all his men on a tight lead, likes to micromanage. He would have never called in a consulting criminal like Moriarty.

“We need Jameson,” Sherlock tells John when they’re lying on the mattress, listening to the whirr of the fan. They can’t install a window air conditioning unit because the flat needs to be ventilated well, but the stream of air from the fan makes the heat more bearable.

It doesn’t help that Sherlock has started to wear nothing but a pair of briefs and a thin cotton shirt to sleep. John spends most of his time turned on his side, facing away from Sherlock. He’s thankful that he’s too exhausted most of the time from carrying out Sherlock’s errands to let his mind wander and indulge too much.

But sometimes, when he’s looking at Sherlock’s eyes still open in the dark, Sherlock’s long legs curled up towards the blanket between them, John feels that steady want, familiar and heated, the low hum that he’s learned how to ignore from months of practice.

“My contact in Amsterdam said Jameson was the one with ties to Moriarty.” Sherlock’s voice feels more like a vibration than an actual sound from this close. John feels himself relax.

“If your product is as good as Anthony says, you should have no problem getting Jameson interested,” John suggests with his eyes closed.

Sherlock laughs and John feels him shifting on the mattress, “You propose a dangerous game.”

John smiles. Sherlock’s hand drops next to John’s in the space between them and eventually his breathing evens out. John falls asleep with their pinkies touching.

_____

John gets it, gets that he should never ask questions in this business. But sometimes when he’s handing over three hundred dollars for a quarter ounce of palladium, he wonders where these people stole it from—how Sherlock even managed to track these sources down.

“Don’t buy it if it’s been badly oxidized,” Sherlock had instructed. John peers at the vial, trying to see through the brown glass whether the insides are silver or black.

“Air-tight,” the girl says—girl because she can’t be older than twenty. She cracks chewing gum between her teeth every once in a while. “Not powdered. Top quality.”

She can’t possibly be old enough to even know what “top quality” entails. John should report her to the authorities, or at least to the professor that she’s no doubt stealing from. But instead he pulls six fifty-dollar bills from his wallet and passes it to her under the table. She smiles at him and the bubble she’d been blowing pops.

“Good doing business,” she says, lifting her frappuccino at him. John nods. She tucks the money away and slips from her seat. Moments later she disappears around the corner of the Starbucks. John pretends to read a newspaper for a few more minutes before he drains the last of his black coffee and goes home.

_____

“Acetone!” Sherlock yells from the bathroom when John opens the front door, “And buy one of those industrial strength vacuums, I’ve gone long enough without rigging a proper rotovap. And pick up fruit on the way back, will you?”

John doesn’t ask what would qualify as industrial strength. He walks far enough into the flat to deposit the catalysts Sherlock had asked for onto the table and turns around to head back out.

“And cigarettes?” Sherlock appears at the bathroom doorway. John’s surprised that Sherlock had bothered to phrase it as a question. He digs into the pocket of his jeans and throws a box of nicotine patches at Sherlock.

“These aren’t cigarettes,” Sherlock whines.

“Tough,” John says.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the box but pulls it open anyway. He pulls out a patch and starts peeling it apart. “Cantaloupe would be fine. Nothing heavy.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ll have another pick-up location for you when you get back,” Sherlock says as he brushes past John to examine the catalysts that John has just brought him, “Or honeydew. No bananas. Don’t forget the acetone.”

“Okay,” John agrees and shuts the door after himself.

_____

Sherlock pulls three hundred grams of product out of his bag and sets it on the table in front of Anthony. Anthony picks it up and examines the chunks of cocaine before pulling out a piece and slicing a part away using a razorblade.

“How much for three kilograms in the same timeframe?”

John notices the way that Sherlock straightens, the way his words come out sharp. “I don’t have enough materials.”

Anthony waves over one of the guards, “What do you need? I’ll get it for you.”

“Ether,” Sherlock says, “Sodium borohydride. Benzene. Real chemistry equipment.”

Anthony scrawls Sherlock’s demands on a notepad and looks up at him, “One week. I’ll get you your chemicals.” He rips out the page and hands it to the guard.

“That’s hardly the start of my list,” Sherlock says.

“Tell it to Parker,” Anthony says, jerking a thumb at the guard, “I’m more interested in how much you want for the job.”

_____

“Jesus,” John says, when they’re back on the subway travelling north, “I couldn’t even make that much in half a year.”

“And neither will we,” Sherlock replies, “Jameson is the real target here.”

The brakes on the train screech as they approach the stop. John looks out the window at the passengers waiting to get on.

“Anthony won’t be happy,” John says.

“Astute.”

John looks back at Sherlock, “We should invest in another gun.”

_____

They get a second Glock, same model, so that they can share ammunition without having to worry about compatibility. Sherlock is unpractised with releasing and reloading the magazine quickly but he’s got a decent aim.

“Ever kill a man before?” John asks, and he means for it to be joking.

Sherlock peers down the sight and replies, “Depends on your definition of kill.”

“I wasn’t—are you serious?”

“I’ve intentionally provided the means for people to kill themselves, yes,” Sherlock says, “And I will always value my well being over those of strangers if the situation calls for it.”

“That’s acceptable,” John says and tries to make his voice light, “Ever shot a man before?”

Sherlock lowers the gun and looks at him. John doesn’t know what prompted him to ask in the first place—it was a stupid, morbid attempt at a joke—and he tries to wave it off, “Sorry, I don’t know what’s—”

“No.”

“Oh,” John says. Sherlock looks back at the gun.

John fidgets with a round. He keeps his eyes on the ground when he clears his throat and hears himself say, “It gets easier after the first one.”

_____

“What’s in it?”

Sherlock rolls over so that he’s laying on his back. John keeps his eyes on the cracked ceiling. A car guns its engines down the street and the sound of it momentarily rises over the fan.

“What do you put in the cocaine?”

“I’d have to draw it for you,” Sherlock says, “You wouldn’t be able to visualize it from the name alone.”

John hums in agreement. Organic chemistry had never been his strong suit.

“I’ll draw you the mechanism,” Sherlock adds. His voice is low. “It’s beautiful, really. Elegant. I’ve had to make a few adjustments since I can’t work at minus eighty so the yield isn’t as good as it could be. But the theory behind it.”

“You could have gone into pharmacology,” John says.

Sherlock laughs and something stirs low in John’s stomach. “Boring, John.”

“How did you even come across it?”

“A complete lack of supervision in the chemistry labs,” Sherlock murmurs, “And a complete disregard for what might be considered as dangerous.”

“I see not much has changed.”

“No,” Sherlock says, “I didn’t used to care about staying alive.”

John closes his eyes and his voice is quiet, “I suppose revenge is a good reason as any to stay alive.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. John thinks that he’s gone to sleep. He rolls over onto his side and prepares to sleep when he hears Sherlock say very softly, “Yes. Revenge.”


	3. Chapter 3

“John,” Sherlock says as he watches a transparent substance recrystallise in the flask, “Can you pick locks?”

John keeps washing the glassware in the sink and tries not to think about the biohazardous materials he’s probably flushing into the sewage system. At least he’s wearing gloves. “I’m decent. Probably a bit rusty now though.”

“I have a lockpick set in my bag,” Sherlock says, not looking up, “You should practice.”

“Why? What’s all this then?”

“I’m asking for a meeting with Jameson at the end of this week,” Sherlock says, “I need you to break into his house and get me a copy of his computer files and internet history.”

John stops scrubbing and looks up, “I’m not exactly trained in secret-ops, Sherlock. Field surgeon, remember?”

“You’ll just have to be extra careful then,” Sherlock replies, “We’ll need a copy regardless of whether he decides to employ us.”

John breathes in, then out. “Okay,” he says, “Okay—how much time do I get to prepare?”

_____

The street is deserted. John is thankful for that at least. His heart beats in his throat as he works the lockpick into the keyhole and feels for the clicks.

Two minutes later, he’s standing in the foyer of a sparsely decorated town home. It smells like plaster and sawdust—Jameson must have just renovated some part of it recently. It’s bigger on the inside than John’s careful observation of it from the outside might have suggested.

The study is to the left. Even with his gloves, John makes sure to touch as little as possible. He registers the sound of the occasional passing car, the rasp of his own breathing, even the creak of his muscles. He glances at his watch. Sherlock would be in the middle of his discussion with Jameson now.

He pulls the terabyte external hard drive from his bag and shakes the mouse to wake the computer up. He remembers the directions Sherlock had repeated to him on how to retrieve internet history that’d been deleted. He mouths each step to himself as he clicks and types, fingers pecking at the keyboard.

Thirty-two minutes to copy the contents of the computer. John glances at his watch again. Not even ten minutes has passed since he broke in.

He opens a desk drawer and carefully sifts through the contents, making sure not to disturb the ordering. Electricity and natural gas bills are grouped together for each of Jameson’s restaurants. Drafts of tax forms, a list of employees. John pulls out a camera and takes photographs, just in case. He puts it all back and closes the drawer.

There has to be something more incriminating. John goes to look at the bookshelf, scanning the titles of the books. The bottom shelf contains untitled leather-bound notebooks. He pulls one out and flips it open.

Numbers. Columns of unlabeled numbers.

Something isn’t right. This is too easy. Maybe these numbers don’t mean anything at all. 

John takes pictures anyway, flipping through the pages until the computer beeps to alert him that the copying is complete. He tucks the camera away and returns the notebook to the shelf.

Something creaks on the floor upstairs. John freezes and doesn’t dare to breathe. He should have muted the sound on the computer.

Silence. John checks his watch again. Thirty-eight minutes since he broke in. He needs to get out. He pulls the external hard drive and slips it back into the bag. He redeletes the internet history and pauses in the doorway of the study, judging whether or not to go back through the front door or to take an alternate exit.

He realizes that he’s forgotten to lock the front door behind him. He doesn’t have much of a choice after all.

And as he’s closing the front door behind him, he looks up and sees the old woman who sat assembling AK47’s in Jameson’s office the first time they met. She stares down at him with her hands grasping the second-floor railing until the door is fully shut and John has to clamp down on the urge to run.

_____

There are maybe twenty streets between Jameson’s south Philadelphia home and the dingy flat where he and Sherlock live and John’s too nervous to walk the entire way so he hails a cab at the first major intersection he comes to. He’s too busy looking at his watch and trying to calm himself that it’s too late when he realizes that the cab has stopped completely and the driver is speaking in agitated French over the phone.

He can see flashing lights in the side mirror and his nervousness makes way for infuriated panic—what had the cabbie done? Sped through a red light? How the fuck could the driver be so incompetent when they were paid to drive?

He half considers climbing to the right side and getting out of the cab but that might draw more attention to himself. He would just have to play the annoyed customer.

He watches the policeman get out of the car in the side mirror and approach the cab. He looks at his watch again—Sherlock would be expecting him back soon—and nearly jumps when the policeman taps on his window.

He hesitates. Then he rolls down the window.

“Mr. Freeman?”

John forces himself to smile, “Can I help you sir?”

“Saw you getting picked up at Broad and South. I wasn’t sure if it was you. You’re a very difficult man to track down,” the policeman says. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he adds to the cab driver.

“Am I in trouble?” the cab driver asks.

“No, not at all. Uh, Mr. Freeman, if you could just come with me. Your uncle has desperately been trying to get in contact with you.”

“My uncle,” John repeats.

“The station’s just down the street.”

John steadies his breathing. Then he forces himself to smile again and opens the car door, “Of course.”

_____

John taps his fingers on his knees as he sits at the edge of the bench, waiting for the policeman to return. He’s all too aware of the hard drive and camera in his bag and can’t stop thinking about the old woman staring down at him through the open door.

He runs a hand over his face—he hasn’t bothered to trim his beard in the last few days so it must look awful. He rubs his palms against his thighs, trying to dry them of sweat. How much does he look like John Watson? How did the policeman know what Martin Freeman looked like?

“Mr. Freeman?”

John looks up.

“If you’ll follow me.”

John gets up and follows the man to his desk. The phone receiver is off the hook, on top of the desk. The policeman hands it to him. John forces himself to smile and thank the man.

“Hello?”

“John.” It’s Mycroft’s voice.

“How did you—”

“If my brother had wanted to stay hidden, he wouldn’t have used his old name,” Mycroft says.

“You sold him out,” John says, “You sold him out to that madman.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replies. There’s a rustle of paper over the line and Mycroft’s voice is unexpectedly soft as he says, “Tell him I’m sorry, will you?”

“No,” John glances at the policeman, wonders if his one-sided conversation might give him away. But caution gives way to anger, “He doesn’t trust easily and I don’t forgive easily.”

“Regardless of how you feel about me, I think it would be in everyone’s best interest and safety if you returned. The charges against you two will be dropped, provided you would serve some time under house arrest—”

“No.”

Silence. John considers hanging up the phone.

“John,” Mycroft finally says, “I know what my brother is doing over there. I know what he’s making. What I think you fail to realize, is that the greatest threat you two face at the moment is Sherlock himself.”

“You want me to bring him back so you can keep an eye on him.”

“When Sherlock graduated, he had offers from four different pharmaceutical companies. Signing bonuses in the six digits. He spent the next two years sleeping on couches, only staying sober enough to make money for his next hit.”

“You’re not the same now as you were when you were twenty-two. He’s changed too.”

“Perhaps if you had been there the day I pulled Sherlock half-dead out of a basement, you would understand.”

John wants to deny it but no words will pass his lips.

“I need my brother in London, John.”

“No,” John finally snaps, “I believe in him.” He hangs up.

He doesn’t look at the policeman who is still standing at his desk. He forces a smile. “May I leave?”

_____

“Late,” Sherlock says from where he sits on the ground, throwing a rubber ball against the wall, “Did you get it?”

“Good news, yes,” John closes the door after himself and sets the bag next to Sherlock who immediately digs into it, “Bad news is that there was somebody in the house.”

“Well,” Sherlock says as he pulls out the camera and turns it on, “That’s why you have a gun, isn’t it?”

“It was that old woman who was in his office.”

“All the more reason. She’s close to dying anyway.”

“Sherlock,” John says, stressing both syllables, “I wasn’t going to shoot a defenceless old woman.” He presses the edge of his hand into his eyes, “I’m sorry. I should have done a more thorough investigation before.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” Sherlock replies, “Jameson said no.”

“Oh,” John drops his hand and looks at Sherlock, “Why would he do that?”

Sherlock flips through the images on the camera, “Where did you find these?”

“Bookshelf. One of many.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock says and reaches for his laptop.

“Another thing,” John says, “A policeman pulled me off the street and took me to the station where your brother was waiting for me on the phone.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock hisses, “He wants us to go back to London, no doubt.”

“He said the biggest threat to us right now is you.”

Sherlock looks up at him. Eventually he says, “What do you think?”

“I don’t want to believe him.”

Sherlock smiles, a quicksilver flash. “Perhaps you should.”

“I know you.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply to that. He looks at the laptop.

“What do we do now?” John asks.

_____

“She’s an older model but she runs like new,” the woman says, “Replaced her tires two years ago. My husband just wants a new car and we don’t have room in the garage anymore.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says, hands behind his back as he circles the car, “Martin?”

“It looks okay. Should be a reliable car,” John replies.

“How much?” Sherlock asks the woman.

“Twenty-eight hundred?”

John meets Sherlock’s eyes over the roof of the car. They only have the eight thousand dollar advance for the three kilograms Anthony wanted—but they didn’t have time to find something cheaper.

“Twenty-three,” Sherlock says.

“She’s a fantastic car,” the woman says, “I’d hate to part with her for anything less than twenty-six.”

“Twenty-five,” John says, “Final offer.”

_____

“Park around the corner,” Sherlock instructs.

“Why?”

“Mycroft probably had the police follow you here—” Sherlock says, “—just to keep an eye on us until he can come personally to retrieve me. Let’s not let him know we have a car.”

_____

“John.”

John looks up. Sherlock sits at the table, examining the liquid that’s forming in the condensor, “I need you to run out and get me rubbing alcohol. Seventy percent ethanol will do, preferably ninety-nine.”

John sets aside the laptop—they’re barely a third of the way through Jameson’s documents—and frowns, “I really don’t feel comfortable leaving you here alone.”

Sherlock doesn’t even look at him, “I’ve got a gun.”

“You’re busy synthesizing.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock replies, “Which is why I need you to get the alcohol so I can finish this synthesis. If you can’t find rubbing alcohol, vodka will do.”

John gets up and takes the gun from the kitchen drawer. He checks that it’s fully loaded and sets it on the table, next to the heating mantle.

Sherlock tilts his head back to look at John. John’s eyes involuntarily move to the long line of his throat.

“Are you sure you want to put that gun so close to my experiment?”

“I know how you get when you focus on your work,” John replies, looking down at Sherlock, “I want you to promise me that you’ll be more alert while I’m out.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock replies, looking back at the thermometer and waving John away.

John hurries out the door with every intent of hurrying back.

_____

There are first aid kits right next to the rubbing alcohol and John doesn’t even think twice about pulling one off the shelf. He checks the concentration of the alcohol. Seventy—he’ll probably have to endure Sherlock bitching about not trying hard enough to find something better—and he’s at the register.

“Expecting injuries?” the cashier asks.

John shakes his head and pays with a twenty.

_____

There is a car parked in front of the fire hydrant in front of the flat. John looks at it as he unlocks the front door and tries not to let his paranoia run with him.

He climbs up the stairs and rounds the corner. 

The door to their flat is open.

John pushes down on the panic and sets the shopping bag aside. He pulls the gun from his back pocket and steadies his breathing before walking forward.

When he peers around the doorway, he can’t see anybody. The liquid in the round bottom flask has almost boiled dry and the power indicator shows that the heating mantle is still on. Sherlock wouldn’t be that careless. The gun on the table is nowhere to be seen.

John keeps his back to the wall, gun still poised, and moves into the room. “Sherlock?”

A movement to his left, he whirls. It’s a man he doesn’t recognize but he doesn’t know where Sherlock is, doesn’t know if he’ll need information—so he doesn’t shoot and instead uses the man’s momentum against him and throws him against the wall.

He’s distracted long enough that he never sees the second man, the one who hits him on the back of his head.


	4. Chapter 4

When John wakes, the back of his head hurts like hell.

He keeps his eyes closed and struggles into full consciousness. His mouth is taped shut. His hands are taped together behind his back, ankles taped to the legs of the chair. He tests the looseness of the tape around his wrists: tight.

Someone slaps his face. John forces himself to open his eyes, and involuntarily draws in a sharp breath from the light.

“Good, we’re awake,” the man says. He’s thin and not the man that John threw into the wall. The man that John threw into the wall is standing behind Sherlock, who is also seated in a chair with his hands tied behind his back and ankles taped to the chair. He has a bruise blooming across his cheekbone and dried blood on his chin. His mouth is taped shut too.

Their guns are on the kitchen counter. John is closer to them than Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at him and John can read the apology in his eyes. John shakes his head.

“Vernet,” the thin man says, “We’re here to pass on a message from Anthony.”

He tilts John’s weight onto one leg—he’s stronger than he looks—and turns John away from Sherlock. The guns are to his left now. The thin man crouches behind him on the right. He feels pressure of fingers on his wrist and hears the tearing of fabric. Something sharp presses against his right elbow.

“You might need your hands to work with,” the thin man says, “But I’m sure your friend doesn’t.”

John hears Sherlock shout something muffled. God, he needs his mind to move _faster_ , stop this sluggish haze of pain slowing all his thoughts.

The knife slices into his skin. The expectation was worse than the actual pain. But then the knife drags down his arm and he can feel the warm blood pool into the palm of his hand as the pain gets worse and worse. He won’t scream though, even as tiny whimpers escape his throat and tears well up in his eyes. He clenches his jaw and focuses on breathing, in and out through his nose.

“Are you watching, Vernet?”

_No, no, no, Sherlock, don’t watch this._

The man pulls the knife out and what hits John more than the pain is the sucking sound his flesh makes against the blade as it’s withdrawn. Fuck that's a deep cut—possibly slicing against bone. He tries to focus on breathing: in and out.

“Watch carefully,” the man says, “Because next time this will be you. I want to make sure that Anthony’s message is clearly received. You belong to Anthony, and the next time you try to cross him, he won’t be so merciful.”

The man is tracing letters into the heel of his thumb. There’s so much blood pooling in his hands.

He breathes and looks at the guns on the counter. He has to do it. Grit his teeth and do it. He only has one chance.

He shifts his weight forward, swinging the chair to aim approximately for where the man’s face must be—and at the same time, closes his hand around the knife, tearing it out of the man’s grasp. It slices deep into his hand but he twists his wrist so that the handle goes into his left hand. He cuts through the tape with a vicious jab and within moments he has traded the knife for a gun.

The thin man has a hand pressed to his eye—where John must have hit him—and John doesn’t even think twice about shooting him in the head.

The other man has a knife pressed to Sherlock’s throat, “Don’t even think about it.”

John takes aim. He shoots. The man hits the wall and slides down, leaving a smear of blood.

John lets the gun drop. He can’t even cradle his hand to his chest, not with the open cut in his arm. He scrabbles for the knife and clumsily cuts through the tape on his ankles.

He forgets the tear the tape from his mouth as he hurries to cut Sherlock loose. The moment that Sherlock’s arms are free, Sherlock’s fingers touch the inside of his wrist, slipping through the blood. John lifts it with a sharp intake of breath. Sherlock shakes his head and looks up at John.

John can’t help himself—reaches out to touch the cut where the knife had pressed into Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock laughs low, incredulous, even as he blinks away the tears they’re both pretending he’s not crying. Sherlock pulls the tape from John’s mouth first before doing his own.

John searches for something, anything, to staunch the blood. A touch at his shoulder and Sherlock presses his wadded up shirt to John’s arm.

“Sit,” Sherlock orders, “Don’t pass out. I’m going to pack and we’re going to leave.”

John sits and concentrates on his breathing.

_____

Sherlock drives.

John presses his forehead against the window and tries not to think about his arm or hand.

_____

John sits at the edge of the bathtub in the motel room and wets a t-shirt with the rubbing alcohol Sherlock had sent him to buy. He steels himself and starts to clean the cuts.

He’s in the middle of picking out what needle to use to stitch the edges of the wound together when Sherlock appears at the bathroom doorway. John looks up at him. “Do you have a lighter?”

Sherlock moves to his side and kneels on the linoleum. He flicks on his lighter and John picks up a needle with trembling fingers and touches it to the flame. He holds it between thumb and forefinger as he looks at the cleaned up mess of his other hand. He can’t feel his fourth finger, nor his pinky and he isn't sure if he can make them move.

Sherlock plucks the needle from his fingertips and gently takes John’s hand in his. He studies the wounds before drawing a hovering line over the deepest cut, the one that had dug into his palm when he had pulled the knife away.

John nods.

Sherlock reaches up, touches the inside of his wrist again and skims his fingers up until they rest in the crook of John’s elbow. He looks up at John.

John shifts so that Sherlock has better access to his arm. The cut is slowly oozing blood. The water in the tub is tinged a deep pink.

Sherlock threads fishing line through the eye of the needle. John closes his eyes and leans his head against the tile. He focuses on how cold the tile is and occupies himself with the rhythm of Sherlock’s breathing.

_____

Sherlock places John’s gun on the table between the beds. He’s placed his laptop on the bed closer to the door.

John curls up on his left side and closes his eyes.

_____

John opens his eyes and immediately wishes he were asleep again. His arm throbs with pain.

Morning light slants in through the curtains. Sherlock stands at the window.

He closes his eyes and forces away the thought of the pain. He’s gone through worse with his shoulder. But he can’t help the way that his jaw clenches against the pain, refusing to let him speak until he pushes past with an effort.

“Wouldn’t be able to synthesize some painkillers, would you?” His mouth is dry.

Sherlock is at his side within moments. He cracks open a water bottle.

John uses his good arm to haul himself into a sitting position. He tries to drink the water but half of it spills down his chin. He can’t stop his good hand from shaking. Sherlock steadies the water and John tries not to hate it too much—this sudden loss of independence.

“Ibuprofen?” John asks. Weak as hell but better than nothing. Sherlock disappears into the bathroom and returns with the first aid kit. He shakes a pill out into John’s good hand. John flicks it into his mouth and reaches for the bottle. He’s grateful that Sherlock doesn’t try to help him and doesn’t say anything as the water drips down his chin.

“Are you all right?” John asks.

Sherlock laughs, just once.

“You’re not talking,” John says.

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock says.

“Okay,” John says, “Do we have to leave now?”

“We don’t have to.”

John closes his eyes. He wants to lay back down and sleep, but they can’t be far from Philadelphia yet.

“Come on,” John says, “I’ll sleep in the car.”

_____

John leans his head against the window and sleeps. He wakes in five minute snatches to catch a stretch of forest or the tail end of sunset. Sherlock drives and John is too tired and in pain to care much about where they are going.

Once, John wakes to a stabbing pain in his arm but keeps his eyes closed in hopes that he’ll fall back asleep quickly. He’s half dozing when he thinks he hears Sherlock murmur, “This is why I didn’t want to bring you,” but he can’t be sure that he didn’t just hallucinate it.

Later, John wakes with Sherlock’s hand on top of his. It’s dark except for the headlights illuminating the asphalt and the weeds on the side of the road. John doesn’t dare move his hand, just stares out of the passenger seat into the darkness until he closes his eyes and falls asleep again. Sherlock never moves his hand once.

When John wakes again, they’re parked at a rest stop. Sherlock is asleep. John can make out the silhouette of his shoulder against the dim light of the streetlamps.

Maybe it’s the delirium of infection setting in. But he’s sitting in a strange car in the middle of a strange land, miles away from any city and he thinks that he’s never felt so much at home.

_____

John wakes to the radio playing. It’s some morning talk show—the last thing that John would expect Sherlock to be listening to. They’re driving through a stretch of farmland with the sun at their back.

John is suddenly aware of how hungry he is. He hasn’t had anything beyond the occasional bottle of water Sherlock keeps for him in the cup holder.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks over at him. “You’re awake.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

Sherlock looks back at the road.

“You haven’t eaten since—why am I surprised?”

“A few other things seemed to take precedence,” Sherlock replies, “The hunger keeps my mind sharp.”

“Can we stop somewhere?”

Sherlock shuts the radio off. “Of course.”

_____

John cuts into his eggs carefully. Every time he moves his right arm, the stitches pull at his skin. John can’t tell what he hates more: that sensation or the pain.

“Where are we going?”

Sherlock drinks his coffee and picks at the fried potatoes on his plate. “Phoenix.”

“Er,” John says, “I’m not really keen on American geography.”

“Arizona,” Sherlock clarifies, “It’s in the southwest. You wouldn’t happen to know Spanish, would you?”

“Afraid not.”

“Pity.” Sherlock pulls out his phone.

The door of the diner jingles and a family comes in. The waitress seats them on the other side of the restaurant, away from where he and Sherlock are sitting. Good.

“Why Phoenix?”

Sherlock looks up at him. “I’ve been busy researching while you’ve been asleep.”

“I figured.”

“That night we left, I combed through what you copied from Jameson’s computer. I also deciphered the numbers that you took photographs of.”

Sherlock pauses. John takes the bait, “Well?”

“Did you ever wonder how I was so well connected here?”

“It might have crossed my mind a few times,” John agrees. And then he adds, “But I trusted you so I figured it didn’t matter.”

Sherlock sets his phone on the table. “The internet is bigger than you think.”

“I don’t spend much time thinking about the internet.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees, “That’s why you never realized you were taking pictures of IP addresses.”

John forks a piece of bacon. “Okay,” he says, “How?”

“Numbers in columns. The first column is always a combination of prime numbers. That’s the key for the cipher. The next two columns give the IP address.”

“What does this have to do with you being well connected?”

“There are billions of websites that remain unindexed. Some because they don’t last long enough to be indexed, others because they actively run scripts to hide them from indexing bots. There are forums to discuss the movement of illicit substances, people wanting to buy, people offering to sell. Detailed instructions on how to make explosives, pornography that ranges in the extreme. Anything and everything can be found on the internet if you know exactly where to look.”

“You do.”

Sherlock smiles. “Yes.”

“And these IP addresses—?”

“Instructions sent by Moriarty. Almost all of them lead to defunct pages but the few that were still up instructed Jameson to dispatch some of his men west. There was a discussion on one of the latest pages that suggested that something happened in Phoenix. A search through my usual sources suggested that there was a power vacuum created by the unexpected death of a major distributor. It’s very likely that Moriarty’s network is behind it all, considering the discussions of moving west were timestamped long before the death occurred.”

“Christ,” John laughs, “You’re fantastic.”

Sherlock looks down at his plate, “It was good fortune that you thought to photograph the numbers.”

John shakes his head, “Why would he write them down like that?”

“Likely received a fragment of a column of numbers separately on different days. Easier for Moriarty to conceal information for anybody who might be intercepting the communication. Jameson was wary enough to not want to leave an electronic trace but overconfident enough to to write them all down in the same place.” At John’s look, he adds, “The color of the ink varies based on what he receives, usually the same down the column but not always across.”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

Sherlock hides his smile behind a mug of coffee.

_____

John makes a complete list of their inventory on the back of a napkin while Sherlock drives but doesn’t bother to include any of Sherlock’s equipment or reagents.

“John,” Sherlock says as they drive through what feels like their millionth mile of cornfield. John looks over at him.

“I’m a criminal.”

John isn’t sure where Sherlock is headed. “Spot on. So am I. We seem to be in this together.”

“No,” Sherlock waves—a minute twitch of his wrist on the steering wheel. “I was before. And here I am, again.” He glances over at John, “Do you understand?”

John rubs his good hand against his neck. Sherlock is asking something that John doesn’t really know how to answer. “This—it doesn’t change anything about you. I don’t see you any differently.”

“It’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?”

“Who cares?”

“I thought you might.”

“No.”

“Your blind trust never fails to astonish me,” Sherlock says.

John ought to be offended. But instead he just looks back down at the list and repeats, “We’re in this together.”

_____

The sign in the lobby claimed that there was free wifi. The bathroom door is closed and John hears the shower water running. John doesn’t think twice about digging through Sherlock’s bag to get the laptop.

He’s digging in one of the smaller pockets for the charger when his fingertips slide across something smooth at the bottom. Without thinking, John pulls it out. A bag of fine white powder—nothing like the glossy white flakes Sherlock scraped from his glassware at the end of a synthesis, or the rough mixture that he gave Anthony. He can’t help but dig into the pocket again. No razor, but there’s a bottle of nasal spray. Sherlock has never used nasal spray before.

John lets out a breath. Then he sets the bag and the nasal spray on the table in front of the bag and gets the laptop charger out.

_____

Sherlock sees it the moment that he opens the bathroom door and steps into the room. John pretends to be looking at the laptop but Sherlock probably knows that John’s watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock goes over to the bag and pulls out a pair of briefs and sweatpants. He doesn’t touch the items in front of the bag but he keeps standing there, one fist wadded into the change of clothes, other around the edge of the towel on his waist.

“Are you angry?”

John doesn’t answer. And then he says, “Yes.”

Sherlock drops the towel. John doesn’t even make the pretence of looking away—he's too furious for modesty. He clenches his jaw. Sherlock pulls on the briefs, then the sweatpants.

“Is this what you meant by blind trust?” John feels detached from his own words.

Sherlock straightens. John stares at the space between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“I never said I was a role-model, John.”

“I never expected you to be,” John replies, “But I did expect you to respect me. Just a little bit.”

“I do,” Sherlock says, turning around, “But you don’t understand—”

“No,” John says, “I don’t think you understand. Because right now, it’s you and me. You are the only person in this entire world that I have to be able to trust entirely. And you’ve just swept that out from under me.”

“If I didn’t take it, we wouldn’t be where we are now!” Sherlock snarls, “I wouldn’t have been able to stay awake for so many nights. I—” He slows, and spits his last words out, “I wouldn’t have been able to make those connections as quickly.”

“Cocaine is not some fucking bloody miracle drug,” John says, low, “Would you like to know what Mycroft told me about your youth? About dragging you half dead from a basement?”

Sherlock pales, “This is nothing like that.”

“No,” John says, “This time you’re as responsible for my life as you are for your own. Just as I’m responsible for yours.”

Sherlock takes a step towards him. John can’t read the expression on his face.

“I trust you but I don’t trust the junkie,” John says, “And because you are a junkie, I can’t trust you.”

“I’m not—”

“I’m not as smart as you, Sherlock. I can’t think fifty steps ahead like you do. So when you make a decision, I can’t be sure whether or not it was made to help us take down Moriarty or if you’re just looking for the fastest way to your next hit.”

“I’m not a junkie!” Sherlock roars.

Silence. John can see the way that Sherlock’s chest moves with each breath.

John shuts the laptop shut. He slips off the bed and unplugs it. He moves past Sherlock and puts the computer on the table. Sherlock watches him.

John climbs into bed and turns on his good side. He closes his eyes but doesn’t sleep.

Silence. Then the sound of Sherlock’s bag zipping back up. The light turns off.

John doesn’t think that either of them will sleep tonight.

_____

In the morning, John gets two cups of truly terrible coffee from the vending machine in the motel lobby. It still hurts like hell to hold things in his right hand, but it could be much worse. He hands Sherlock one of the cups in the car.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. John sips his own cup and looks out the window as Sherlock backs out of the parking spot.

They drive in silence.

_____

They’re at a petrol station and Sherlock has just opened the door to get out when John asks, tight, “Were you using your own mix?”

Sherlock pauses and looks at him. His voice is cautious, “John.”

“No, forget it,” John says. He keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead. “It doesn’t actually matter, does it?”

Sherlock stays in his seat for another moment. Then he gets out of the car. The car door shuts. 

It’s fine. John doesn’t know how he wanted Sherlock to reply anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

The cornfields give way to flat plains.

John doesn’t know what to say to Sherlock. Sherlock never attempts to initiate a conversation.

They will have to talk about it before they reach Phoenix. John isn’t sure how long he has to work out what he wants to say.

Sherlock drives. John keeps his eyes closed.

_____

They stop at a petrol station for dinner and fuel. They park next to the tire inflating pump. John wordlessly hands Sherlock a hot dog and a banana and Sherlock doesn’t complain about the food.

“Are you planning to drive all night?” John asks.

Sherlock looks at him.

“If you want a coffee or something,” John adds.

“No.”

“How much longer do we have to drive?”

“Half the country,” Sherlock says, “A few more days.”

“Okay,” John says. And that’s it.

_____

John unwraps the gauze from his arm and looks at his hand. The swelling has gone down but it still looks horribly red. There’s not much blood on the bandages though. He examines the neat stitches on his forearm in the mirror. No sign of infection.

The soap stings when he takes a shower. It’s worth it, though; to get the last of the dried blood off his skin.

Sherlock is laying in bed on his side with his back facing the other bed when John emerges from the bathroom. John runs the towel over his hair and rewraps his arm in dry bandages.

He climbs into his bed and turns off the light. He lays on his back and looks at the thin rectangles of light on the ceiling from the streetlamps. Sherlock’s breathing hasn’t gone slow or deep yet—he’s still awake.

“What does it feel like?” John asks quietly.

A rustling of sheets. John can see the gleam of Sherlock’s eyes in the half-dark when he turns his head. “Why?”

“I don’t understand it,” John says, “I don’t understand why.”

A stretch of silence. Then: “It feels like invincibility. So much energy, just running through your entire body. A fleeting moment of happiness.”

“Are you not?” John says, “Happy that is.”

“I’m very rarely happy, John.”

“Oh,” John says. Perhaps he should feel hurt.

“In university, it was the only thing that gave me the illusion that I had friends of any sort. Chemical friendships, if you will. For an hour or two, I would actually care about people and even if they didn’t like me, the drug convinced me otherwise.”

“Oh,” John says again, quieter.

“I started because I was bored. Then it was about the euphoria. Then it was about staving off loneliness,” Sherlock shifts and the sheets rustle again, “Then it was just because I was a junkie.”

“And now?” John asks, “Why now?”

“Energy,” Sherlock says, “Keeps me awake better than caffeine. It keeps me happier too. I’ve only been using a tiny dose each time—it’s not enough to pull me back to where I was before. I wouldn’t do that to you, John.”

“There’s no such thing as _not enough_.”

Silence. John turns on his side, towards Sherlock.

“Please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock breathes out. And then he says, softly, “Okay. Goodnight, John.”

It’s not really an answer. But John can finally close his eyes and sleep.

_____

The flat plains get drier and drier until the expanse of land outside the window becomes dirt and cacti with rocky hills that are flat on top. They buy cheap pairs of sunglasses at a petrol station and Sherlock turns up the air conditioning in the car.

“Sherlock,” John says as they eat fast food in the car, “I don’t know any Spanish.”

“That’s fine,” Sherlock replies, “I know enough.”

“If what you say is true, that there are multiple players jostling to fill the power vacuum—” John sets aside his overdone hamburger, “We’re outsiders. We’re at a disadvantage. We don’t have the manpower and we don’t have the time to set up a reputation or recruit.”

“We don’t have to do any of that. We can just support the boy who inherited the distribution from his dead father.” There is disdain in Sherlock’s voice, “I doubt we’ll be able to run it into the ground any more than he already has. If my sources are correct, he spends most of his time in nightclubs and partaking in what he’s supposed to be moving.”

“Oh,” John looks down, “Sherlock, I wish you told me more of the plans. I’d like to be on the same page once in a while. That’s all.”

Sherlock glances at him. “How’s the arm?”

John looks down at it, “Fine. I’ll take the stitches out when we get to Phoenix.” He looks back up at Sherlock, “Wouldn’t want our potential clients to think that we were weak.”

“You’re hardly weak, John.”

“Thank you,” John says, “I think.”

When John crumples up the wax paper that had been wrapped around the burger and shoves it into the paper cup of soda, Sherlock says, “I suppose this makes me a consulting criminal.”

John bumps him in the arm with an elbow. He tries for a smile. “I think I liked your other career better.”

_____

They’ve turned the light off. John is on the brink of sleep when Sherlock pulls him back into consciousness: “Yesterday you asked me what cocaine was like.”

John opens his eyes. Why was Sherlock bringing this up now?

“I think I have a metaphor that might make more sense than my abstract description yesterday.”

John rolls over onto his side and looks at Sherlock. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll bite.”

“I expect using cocaine is very similar to what having great sex must be like,” Sherlock says, “With all the endorphins and the oxytocin. Though in cocaine’s case, it mostly affects dopamine levels.”

John is suddenly wide awake.

“The metaphor still stands,” Sherlock adds.

“You’re not speaking from personal experience though.”

“No.” John can tell that Sherlock is annoyed. “I’m not a virgin though, if that’s what you were wondering.”

“No,” John lies.

“Multiple occasions,” Sherlock says. Defensive, maybe, John can’t really tell from the flat tone, “Every time it was both tedious and unfulfilling. I don’t particularly have the desire to try it again.”

“Has no one—” John starts, then stops. How could he phrase this?

“Induced an orgasm?”

“That’s—” John says, “—a bit clinical, but yes.”

Sherlock’s silence answers perfectly well. And then he says, “I always found masturbation to be more effective.”

Jesus. John’s mind helpfully supplies him with an image of Sherlock twisted the sheets, hand fisted around his cock. He pushes that down.

“A lot of sex is finding the combination of the right person at the right time,” John says, “It’s not just about the physicality.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. And then he says, “Persuade me, then.”

John swears he hears an innuendo in there but he’s half certain that it’s just wishful thinking. “What?”

“Describe it.”

This is—this is actually insane. John swallows dryly.

“Um,” John starts. He tries to think of an ex-girlfriend who was blonde and short—opposite of Sherlock. “There was this one girl back in secondary school—we knew each other for ages. She lived down my street and I remember we had this rendezvous spot down by the river that was hidden from view. We hid a blanket under this rock nearby.”

“Unsanitary,” Sherlock mutters.

“It was really exciting at the time,” John presses on, “Half the time we had no idea what we were doing so we just did whatever felt good. I remember at the beginning I was half terrified that she would bite my, um, penis. But she got better and I got better too.”

“Eloquent,” Sherlock says.

“She figured out that I really um—” John doesn’t even know what he’s saying any more, “—I really liked it when we were just naked and sunning ourselves on this rock. And she would just run two fingers over my cock and it’d take half an hour of her relentless teasing to get me up. And she’d just sink down and ride me, god she’d be so slow and drag it out for so long.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. But John knows he’s not asleep. Fuck, he’s starting to get aroused, talking about this.

“It wasn’t always about sex though,” John says, “We’d talk for hours about stupid things. I failed spectacularly every time I cooked her dinner but she kept coming over anyway. Sometimes it was great just touching elbows while we studied for our A-levels.”

Silence. John can’t help it, the images in his mind are slowly morphing: his knees touching Sherlock’s as they watched something terrible on the telly, putting up with all the greasy takeaway because they’re both too tired to cook. His hands on Sherlock’s hips, slow slide down the length of his cock into tight heat—Jesus Christ.

“Where is she now?”

“Hm?”

“This girl.”

John doesn’t know if he’s surprised that Sherlock fixated on that particular aspect of the story. “Not sure. I fell out of contact with her after I got deployed.”

Silence again. John doesn’t touch his half-hard cock. He wills it to go away.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says softly.

John doesn’t know what Sherlock’s thanking him for. “Good night, Sherlock.”

_____

The palm trees in Arizona surprise John when they first arrive. The temperature climbs as they near noon and John keeps his sunglasses on. It’s a dry heat though—easier for sweat to evaporate. Better than Philadelphia.

“Hotel?” John asks, “You figure out how to get an introduction and I’ll start combing for apartments.”

_____

John is cutting his stitches at the desk in the hotel room with his gun on the table when the door clicks open with a beep and Sherlock enters. John snips another piece of fishing line and tugs the plastic from his skin, “Do you know where he is?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, taking off his sunglasses and retrieving his gun from his back pocket. He places both on the dresser. “He’s not entertaining any visitors.”

“Not even with an introduction?”

“Especially not with an introduction. He’s paranoid about his father’s old colleagues trying to take advantage of him.”

John snips at another stitch. “What else do your sources say?”

Sherlock folds his hands behind his back. “Ah,” he says, “You won’t like it.”

John stops pulling his stitches and looks up at Sherlock, “Why? What is it?”

“He has a predilection for hiring male prostitutes.”

John doesn’t move for a long moment. Then he says, “No.”

Sherlock moves towards the window and looks out, “It would be me, of course.”

“I know,” John says, “We’ll find a different way.”

“John,” Sherlock says, “We don’t have much time here. Every day, the other crime lords circle above. You said it yourself, we have no reputation and no time to recruit.”

“There has to be a different way,” John insists.

“Let’s be realistic. His father died two weeks ago. The spread of his territory is too substantial to be ignored. All of the players have been in negotiations with each other the moment that shot was fired. Already the borders of his territory have come under dispute and the smaller ringleaders have started to chip away at his empire. The son has done nothing to stabilize his influence—he has been drowning himself in alcohol and anonymous sex,” Sherlock turns to look at John, “Meanwhile, the wolves are closing in. Everything could topple at a moment’s notice.”

John rubs a hand over his mouth, eyes fixated on the table.

“All I need is thirty minutes alone with him,” Sherlock says, “Thirty minutes to convince him that all we want to do is help him for a tiny cut of the profit. Thirty minutes and everything is set in motion for Moriarty’s network to find us.”

“Sherlock,” John says. It comes out as a plea.

“You know that it’s true,” Sherlock replies, quietly, “This is the only way.”

_____

Sherlock tells him that according to his sources, the heir—Daniel—exclusively uses two male escort services. Neither of them have adequate security and it barely takes an hour for Sherlock’s password-guessing program to log in as the administrator on both.

“Someone’s been scheduled for tomorrow,” Sherlock says, “I’ll need more fitted clothes.”

“We can spare maybe two hundred.”

“Fine,” Sherlock agrees without looking up from the computer screen, “I’ll need a second opinion. Tomorrow morning?”

John runs a finger over the mostly-healed cut in his arm, staring blankly at the edge of the table.

“John?”

John looks up. Sherlock is looking at him.

“Tomorrow morning,” John agrees.

_____

Sherlock fixes the cuff of his sleeves as he looks at himself in the mirror. The suit accentuates his long legs and thin torso.

John picks out a pale green tie that brings out the colour of his eyes. Sherlock ties it and stares at himself in the mirror, his voice barely above a murmur as he says cryptically, “Green means go.”

“I don’t want you to,” John says, half a pace behind Sherlock, hands shoved into his pocket, “I can’t follow you there.”

Sherlock’s eyes meet his in the mirror. John wonders if Sherlock can read everything on his face.

“I’m sorry John.”

Sherlock’s roots are already growing in dark. John will have to trim it and redye it. He reaches out and touches the patch of hair he had missed. It’s been maybe a month and a half since that night they left London—it feels so much longer.

Sherlock doesn’t move away, just watches him in the mirror. “I threw away the cocaine.”

Surprise? Relief? If nothing else, John is glad. “Good. That’s good, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change. He looks away.

“Thank you,” John says and it’s completely inadequate to convey everything he wants to say.

_____

“Do you ever miss Baker Street?”

Sherlock looks down the street before they make a left turn. “I don’t think about Baker Street.”

“Right,” John says. He forces a smile even though Sherlock isn’t looking. “Onward, then.”

_____

“Be careful,” John says.

“Of course,” Sherlock says and shuts the hotel door after himself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belated note: wholly unashamed to admit that this fic drew heavily from _Breaking Bad_ , albeit it's a pale imitation. I honesty can't recommend this show enough.

For most of the night, John paces the hotel room, running his fingers over the new scar tissues on the palm of his hand and thinking about what Sherlock might be experiencing at that moment. Would Daniel just sit and listen to what Sherlock had to say? Or would Daniel fuck him first and ask questions later?

John forces himself to lay down in bed but even then he can’t help but imagine it, some faceless stranger unbuttoning the jacket, pulling loose the tie that John had picked out. Somebody was touching Sherlock right now, pressing their fingers to parts of Sherlock that John didn’t know. He imagines strange hands on Sherlock’s hips, rough fingers pushing into Sherlock’s arse—the fury intensifies threefold until John chokes on it.

John presses his palm to his forehead, edge of his hand digging hard into his eyes as he clenched his jaw. Jesus, he was shaking with anger. Fuck, he had issues. Mycroft had been entirely wrong—the biggest threat to their survival was John’s lack of self-control.

“Stop,” he whispers to himself, “Fucking hell, John Watson, stop.”

He curls on his side and tries to calm himself. He imagines Sherlock stretched naked on a bed, imagines brushing his lips over Sherlock’s ankle, a trail of kisses to the backs of his knees. Imagines mouthing at the insides of Sherlock’s thighs kissing his way to Sherlock’s hipbone, letting his mouth settle at the dip of his torso. And then up his stomach, swirl his tongue at each nipple, biting gently at Sherlock’s collarbones before kissing up his neck and then finally his mouth. A cleansing to chase away the phantom hands.

He imagines that Sherlock might open up to him, might kiss him back and breathe into him as easy as the natural order of things. And it’s with this thought that John finally falls in a fitful sleep.

_____

The click of the door opening is enough to wake John. Sherlock goes straight to the bathroom and shuts the door. Within minutes, John hears the shower running.

John breathes in relief. At least Sherlock is back and safe. He listens to the patter of water hitting the tiled walls and gets dressed.

The shower keeps running. John checks his watch. He tries to busy himself with the laptop, but it’s not working. Sherlock doesn’t usually take showers this long. John pushes down on the spike of fury and forces himself to wait another five minutes.

The water is still running. John knocks on the door, “Sherlock?”

The water shuts off. The ring of the shower curtain being pushed aside.

He really ought to give Sherlock more space. He forces himself to go sit at the table, to look back at the laptop, even as his thoughts are with Sherlock, even as he wants to know what happened the previous night. He looks at his watch. He’ll give Sherlock five minutes.

Five minutes pass. The door doesn’t open. John can’t help it. He knocks on the door again, “Can I come in, Sherlock?”

Silence. “Sherlock?”

“Come in,” Sherlock says.

John opens the door and warm steam billows out. Sherlock stands at the half-full sink, shaving cream on his face. There are long red scratches down the length of his back, bruising imprints of fingertips along his sides.

John’s legs move of their own volition. He doesn’t touch Sherlock but his shaking hands hover over the angry lines.

“Sherlock,” he breathes. Here is irrevocable evidence.

Sherlock meets John’s eyes in the mirror. “Good news.” The smile is entirely fake and John hates him for it. “We’re in.”

_____

John takes the car keys from the desktop, “I’m heading out.”

“Why?” Sherlock demands. He sits on his bed, working on the laptop.

“Looking for a new apartment. Have a few addresses in mind.”

“I thought you found one? I thought you already called them to draw up a contract?”

“Right. But that was a one-bedroom apartment.”

Sherlock looks up at him, “So?”

“So it comes furnished with one bed.”

Sherlock sets the computer aside and scoots to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over, “It was fine two days ago but it’s not fine today. What’s changed? Can’t stand to sleep in the same room as a prostitute?”

“What? Are you—no!”

“Afraid that my willingness to participate in homosexual sex might mean I’ll make advances on you in the middle of the night?”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. No. I thought you might want your space after what happened last night, alright?”

Sherlock laughs. “Seriously, John? It’s not that big of a deal. He used me and I used him right back. In the grand scheme of who has more to gain from this game, we’re winning.”

John’s jaw tenses.

“It’s fine. The one bedroom is fine. It’ll be cheaper anyway. We don’t have that much to spare.”

“I don’t—” John rubs a hand over his face, “—I just want to make sure you’re comfortable with this.”

“Sign the lease,” Sherlock insists, “You really don’t have to go anywhere.” He’s on his feet, fingers tapping against his thigh as he looks at John.

John drops the keys back on the desktop. He’ll just have to look later, when he gets the chance. “Okay.”

_____

John meets Daniel for the first time in his deceased father’s cement factory. The machinery that bags the cement mix is a perpetually loud hum that shakes the ground they stand on. Daniel walks around the factory with a casual lope and his hands in his pockets. He points at maybe half of the equipment and leans in close towards Sherlock to tell him about each one. When Sherlock asks a question, he shrugs and moves on to the next piece of machinery. The only time Daniel had even looked at John was at the very beginning when Sherlock had introduced him as his colleague.

John should have spent more time paying attention to how they hid bags of cocaine in specially marked bags. He barely listened to the foreman’s short explanation of how the runners were also their truck drivers, and how each runner extracted the drugs at their final destination, right before the cement was actually delivered to each hardware store. The drugs that came out of this distribution site served a sizeable chunk of the south-western United States. It would actually be interesting, really, if John weren’t so preoccupied.

He keeps his eyes fixed on the machines so that he doesn’t draw attention to himself. But he’s horribly aware every time Daniel gets too close into Sherlock’s personal space, or touches him—and Sherlock just lets him.

It’s a strange disconnect from the Sherlock that John knows. John isn’t used to Sherlock giving in so easily.

Or maybe he’s reading too much into the straightness of Sherlock’s shoulders and the not-smile that Sherlock keeps showing.

_____

“Okay,” Daniel says after they’ve been at the factory for fifteen minutes, “I’m done here. Let’s go, Ben.”

John is fairly certain that he’s the only one who catches the frown on Sherlock’s face, the one that wrinkles his nose. He smiles and opens his palms as he turns to address Daniel, “I thought we had agreed that you would show me your operation?”

Daniel shrugs, “What else is there to see? What does it matter? This place runs itself anyway. I’m bored now. Let’s go.”

Sherlock looks around.

Daniel touches Sherlock’s arm and it takes all of John’s willpower not to break his wrist. He’s going to have to work on that, really, if he’s going to be spending long periods of time working alongside the man. “Come on. I have some friends I want you to meet. We can leave your colleague with Montes. Leave them to the boring details.”

Sherlock meets John’s eyes.

“Alright,” Sherlock says, “We can go. Give me a moment to instruct Martin.”

“I’ll wait for you in the car,” Daniel says, touching Sherlock’s shoulder. John really really wants to break his wrist. Daniel looks at John and smiles widely before leaving.

“I don’t trust him,” John says quietly the moment that they’re alone, “I don’t like him.”

“Your opinion is irrelevant,” Sherlock replies, “John, I need you to gather as much information from the foreman and the other workers here as possible.”

“You can’t even bring a gun along,” John says.

“I don’t see much opportunity to speak with them due to my, ah, perceived position,” Sherlock continues as if he hadn't even heard John, “It’s absolutely vital that you gain their favour as soon as possible. Observe everything.”

“You need to be careful.”

“John,” Sherlock sets both hands on John’s shoulders.

“Yes,” John says, “Yes, okay.”

Sherlock lets his hands drop before he says, “I might not be back tonight.”

“What?” John says, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice, “We’re moving tonight—you don’t even know the address—I’ll have the car—”

“I know,” Sherlock says, “I’ll call when I leave in the morning.”

John wants to grab Sherlock by the wrist and make him stay. He can’t though. “Please be careful.”

Sherlock smiles, “You said that already.” Then he’s gone.

_____

Montes the foreman smokes a cigarette a few feet away from the back door of the factory. He barely glances at John when he steps outside.

“I’m not showing you around,” Montes says, “I don’t give a shit who you are or why you’re here—that boytoy of Daniel’s isn't gonna last long and I’m not wasting my energy on you.”

John calms himself before he speaks. “That’s fine. From what I hear, this place is going to topple in weeks anyway.”

Montes looks at him. He stubs the cigarette out on the stucco wall and lights a new one.

“Wolves are closing in,” John says, thinking momentarily about Sherlock before clamping down on that train of thought, “You think they’d really let you keep your job when somebody new takes over? At least Daniel knows not to fuck around with your operation.”

“You aren’t from around here,” Montes says, “You and him. What the hell are you Brits doing in Arizona, trying to give me advice about my own business?”

“I don’t want your job,” John says, “We don’t want your profits. We’re here for something else.”

_____

John buys a new first aid kit to replace the one that’s half gone. He buys an electric kettle. He goes home to an unfamiliar empty apartment.

He puts new sheets on the mattress. If they have enough money, they should buy a second mattress. John will sleep on the sofa until they do.

He hauls Sherlock’s chemical equipment from the boot of the car and puts them all in the cupboards. He takes the toiletries that they’ve pilfered from the hotels along the way—all of the tiny toothpastes and minibars of soap—and puts them in the bathroom.

He’s forgotten to buy dishware. No forks or spoons. He’s forgotten to buy any food too.

He can’t stop thinking about Sherlock.

_____

John wakes to his mobile ringing. He blinks at the ceiling for a moment before hauling himself to his feet and reaching into his discarded trousers for it.

“What’s the address?” Sherlock demands when he picks up.

John tells him. And then he asks, “Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock replies, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

_____

The electric razor buzzes as John trims his beard over the bathroom sink. He doesn’t hear the front door open or close. It’s only when Sherlock stands in the bathroom door, looking at him, that John realizes that Sherlock is back.

“Sherlock,” John says, turning the razor off. Sherlock looks at him for a moment longer, then leaves.

“What?” John sets the razor down and hurries after him, “Is something the matter?”

“Do we have any food?” Sherlock asks, hand settling on the refrigerator handle.

“No,” John says. Sherlock leans against the refrigerator, head bowed, and John reaches out, puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “Are you—?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snarls, shrugging John’s hand off and stepping away, “Shut up and stop pitying me.”

John steps back. His eyes narrow. “I’m not—”

“This is the only way,” Sherlock insists, “There is no other way.”

John stares at the slope of Sherlock’s shoulders, the straight line of his back. And he says, “We’re not doing this any more.”

Sherlock takes a breath. And then he puts on a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and he says, “Don’t be stupid, John.”

_____

“I don’t give a flying fuck what you do as long as you stay out of our way,” Montes tells him.

“¿Y este qué hace acá?” the tall woman standing next to Montes asks.

“¿Acaso importa?” Montes replies, and smiles at John. It’s more of a baring of his teeth.

_____

During Montes’ lunch break, John slips into his office. It’s sparsely decorated, just a computer set up on a cheap looking desk, factory standard certificates lined up on the walls. The calendar features a moose for the month of July. Montes must like fishing because he’s been practicing knots using bits of fishing line at his desk.

John moves the mouse and the computer hums to life. He pulls out the external hard drive.

Forty minutes later, John heads back out onto the factor floor. Somebody hands him a mask to put over his face. The cement powder is everywhere.

John walks around. He counts the number of workers (twenty-six) and wonders how much of the profits they get. He wonders how much Daniel keeps for himself. He wonders where Sherlock is now.

Focus.

He notices the other workers looking at him when they think he can’t see them. And he notices them putting their heads together—a conversation that John can’t hear because of the machinery—and then their mouths stretched open in unmistakable laughter.

_____

Sherlock sits at the table in the kitchen, clicking through the files that John has brought him. John makes dinner—beans and salad mix that had been on sale. Maybe scrambled eggs for protein.

“Well,” Sherlock says, “Daniel is unfathomably stupid.”

John stirs the beans and waits for Sherlock to explain.

“He’s somehow convinced that his factory plays a part in the production of the cement when it’s obviously just a distribution center. It’s a wonder he even still has an organization to call his own when he hasn’t sent reinforcements to protect his most vulnerable point.”

John moves to look over Sherlock’s shoulder at the laptop, “Which is?”

“Pure cocaine comes up from Mexico buried in bulk cement trucks,” Sherlock says, “Legitimate import. Hire a few Caucasian truck drivers and be on good terms with the border patrol and they won’t bother you too much. The cement business was established longer before they added the illicit component. The most important part of any drug trafficking business is the route by which your materials travel. Once everything reaches Phoenix, it’s easy. The weakest part of this entire operation is the transit from the mother factory in Mexico, across the border, to here. That would be the first target for any intelligent entrepreneur looking to take over this operation.”

“Why hasn’t anyone done anything?”

Sherlock shrugs, “Shipments don’t come in often and they’re likely waiting for somebody else to make the first move.”

“Sending in reinforcements—”

“Guns. Loyal guns to protect the drivers and to make them think twice about taking bribery from other organizations, if they’re thinking about defecting now that the ringmaster is gone. It’d arouse more suspicion if the guns crossed the border, so as close to the border as possible.” Sherlock pulls up a map on the computer screen, “The route takes a detour through Naco on its way north—I can only imagine the border patrol being more sympathetic to our cause there—and rejoins highway 10 on its way to Phoenix. So—” Sherlock taps the screen, “Bisbee.”

“You say loyal guns,” John says, “Might I remind you that we’re strangers in an organization where everyone openly mocks us?”

“Do they?” Sherlock asks absently, already in the midst of pulling up new files.

“I don’t know who to trust,” John says, “I’ll need more time to figure it out.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Sherlock says, “The next shipment is scheduled in two days, crossing the border Thursday afternoon.”

“Fuck,” John scrubs a hand across his face. And then—shit—the beans are burning. John hurries to turn the stove off.

“Fortunately,” Sherlock says, “I know exactly who to trust.”

_____

John doesn’t want to think about how Sherlock persuaded Daniel to use his contacts to get John a plane ride to Bisbee Municipal Airport. It’s the smallest civilian plane that John’s ever been on. The roar of the engine so close and the stretch of desert land below reminds him of flying over Afghanistan.

The airport is a single stretch of runway with a small building nearby. The asphalt is uneven as they come to a stop and John can see tufts of grass that have stubbornly pushed through the cracks in the ground.

“Thanks,” he says the the pilot, who grunts in response. He hefts his backpack onto his shoulder and climbs out of the aircraft.

_____

John watches the cement truck pull up to the Circle K. John squints through his sunglasses to read the Gonzales Cement logo printed on the side.

The truck idles. John walks to it and climbs up so he can knock on the passenger side window. The driver watches him approach.

“¿Tu eres mi escolta?” the driver demands as she rolls down the window. Feminine voice—John is briefly surprised.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,” John says.

She snorts, then says, “Are you my escort?”

“To Phoenix, yeah,” John says. She motions for him to climb in.

“I don’t know why el Hijo piensa que necesito un escolta” she says, “Qué idiota”

“I’m Martin,” John says as she pulls back out onto the road.

“Kristina,” she replies.

“Nice to meet you.”

Kristina shrugs. “No te reconozco. No sé qué hace un gringo como tú por aquí.”

John pushes down on his frustration and keeps a smile on his face.

_____

“I don’t want to alarm you—” John says, “—but there are two white trucks that have been following us for the last thirty minutes.”

Kristina glances in the side mirror. “¡Ese es el mismo pendejo who cut me off in Naco!”

“Coincidence?”

Kristina looks back at the road, “Maybe. Lots of people go to Phoenix. Nothing special.”

“Hm,” she says after a moment, and gently applies the brakes. The cement truck slows down to five miles under the speed limit.

The second truck switches lanes so it’s behind the other truck. They both slow down to maintain their position behind the cement truck.

Kristina looks at John. “Now that’s interesting.”

_____

Kristina exits at highway 202. The white trucks follow. Kristina eyes them in the side mirror.

She glances back at her dashboard and curses under her breath. “Es un momento de mierda,” she says, “But we need to stop for gas.”

John leans over to look at the meter, “We need to get to the factory.”

“I know,” she says, “We can’t though, alright? We’re still south of Phoenix and it’s all the way in the north. We’re not going to make it if we don’t.”

John stares at the meter. Jesus Christ. “Okay,” he says and pulls his gun from his bag.

She glances at him.

“Go to the closest neighbourhood you’re familiar with. See if you can give them the slip getting to the station. I’m going to get out of the car and go into the convenience mart. You fill up your tank. If the trucks give you any trouble, I’ll come out and back you up. If they don’t, you signal when you’re done and I’ll get back in and we can go.”

“Sounds like a fucking convoluted plan,” she says.

“Have you forgotten that you have a giant logo painted on the side of your truck? No, the police wouldn’t be suspicious of Gonzales Cement at all if a gunman emerged from this truck.”

“Okay, fine, whatever you say,” Kristina replies. She takes the next exit. John shrugs on a jacket despite the heat outside. The gun goes into an inside pocket.

“What about you?” she asks.

John smiles. It almost feels real. “What about me?”

_____

John watches the two white trucks turn into the station over the racks of bagged snacks. There’s only one other customer filling up at the pump to the far right. Open space between the door of the convenience mart and the cement truck. Good. No chance of getting bystanders caught in the crossfire.

John watches two men get out of each of the trucks. They don’t speak to each other but they split up. Two of the men circle around to approach from the driver’s side and the other two from the passenger. Kristina sits in the cab, waiting for the tank to finish filling. One of the men tries to open the driver’s door but it’s locked.

John pushes open the door of the convenience mart. “Hey,” he calls out, “Is there a problem here?”

One of the men looks at him. “Nada que tenga que preocuparte, gringo.”

“It looks to me like you’re harassing that poor woman,” John replies evenly.

“I said,” the man repeats, “Nothing to concern yourself about.” And he pulls a gun.

John shoots without thinking. He moves so fast that a bit of the cut on his arm reopens—he can feel the sting—but his hands don’t shake.

The three other men turn on him, drawing their guns. Kristina uses the distraction to slip out of the cab and replace the pump.

“No tienes idea de con quien te acabas de meter,” one of the men says, “Sabemos cómo luces y no vamos a parar hasta atraparte.”

Kristina starts the cement truck. The roar of the engine is the most glorious thing that John’s ever heard and the three men dive out of the way as Kristina accelerates forward and makes a sharp turn that almost sends the truck careening into the mart.

John takes the opportunity to disappear.

_____

John hears sirens in the distance.

He needs to change his appearance. Maybe black hair. He’ll shave his beard.

But for now, he hides in the small space between house and fence, considering the windows. The newspapers have piled up on the driveway in front and a quick glance into the mailbox showed a substantial accumulation. Whoever lives here is on vacation and John needs someplace to wait out the initial search.

The back door, maybe. John wishes he had Sherlock’s lock picking kit with him. He’ll just have to make do.

It takes him almost ten agonizing minutes but eventually the lock clicks and John slips into the house.

_____

“You realize this is war,” Sherlock says quietly into the phone.

“Right up my street,” John says and he’s not sure if he’s grim or excited at the prospect.

“Stay where you are,” Sherlock says, “I’ll come get you.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Are you all right?” Sherlock demands the moment that John opens the passenger door.

“Not a scratch,” John says, getting in, “Drive.”

“This is a major game changer,” Sherlock says, “Eighty-five percent chance that you’ve just started a cold war where we’ll be crushed. It’d be ninety-eight percent if we hadn’t shown up.”

“I’m sure Daniel is grateful,” John mutters.

“Fifteen percent, though,” Sherlock says, and he’s genuinely smiling, “Fifteen percent that we come out on top.”

John looks out the window and murmurs, “I’m not sure I like those odds.”

_____

“¿Sabes? Eres un puto imbécil,” Montes tells John the moment that he arrives the next morning, “No te encargas de los Hermanos por tu cuenta and live to tell the tale.” He holds out his pack of cigarettes though and jerks his chin at John. John’s spent long enough in the military to recognize the begrudging respect.

“I’m good,” John says, “Thank you.”

Montes shrugs and puts the cigarettes back into his pocket. He lights his and heads towards the door. Between the smoke and the perpetual cement dust, John isn’t sure which one will kill Montes first.

“Kristina’s my sister,” Montes says. And then he’s gone.

_____

John emerges from a two hour discussion about local crime politics with Montes and is about to step outside and call Sherlock when he hears Daniel’s voice drifting in from the front door: “I thought you said you were going to fix all of my problems for me. Now look what a mess you’ve made.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that you’re in a better position today than you were last week?” Sherlock’s voice.

“Oh honey,” Daniel says, “Don’t tell me lies. Diaz sent me a hand today. A human hand. Disgusting. It’s obviously a threat. And you’re telling me that I’m better off?”

John’s jaw tenses. He peers around the doorframe. Daniel has Sherlock backed up against the wall, index finger on his jawline. Sherlock is staring at his shoulder.

Fuck this. John steps out of the factory. Both of them look at him. Sherlock actually fucking _flinches_ for a second before straightening and reclaiming a sharpness to his face. Maybe a bystander would have missed it, but John fucking _knows_ Sherlock. The fury rises in John—who the fuck did this man think he was—what the fuck did he do to Sherlock—what would be the most painful way for him to die—?

“Hello Martin,” Daniel says, “I hear you’re an excellent shot.” He pushes himself off the wall, away from Sherlock and tucks his hands into his pockets. He smiles.

“Am I interrupting anything?” John is impressed at how calm his voice sounds.

“Not at all. We were just finishing our conversation, weren’t we Ben?”

Sherlock doesn’t move from the wall.

“Right then,” Daniel says, “Well then. We should sleep on today’s events and come at this problem tomorrow morning.”

Daniel keeps his eyes on John. John liked it better when Daniel didn’t pay any attention to him at all.

“I don’t need you tonight,” Daniel says, as an afterthought without looking at Sherlock. He turns and twirls his car keys on his finger, as he leaves.

Silence. Sherlock stares at the ground. Uncharacteristic—what the fuck is going on here? John wants to run after Daniel and smash him face first into the windshield of his car—how dare he, how fucking dare he—

“Let’s go,” Sherlock says.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock heads in the direction of their car.

“Sherlock,” John repeats, hurrying to catch up with him.

“No,” Sherlock says, “We’re not talking about this.”

_____

Sherlock opens the laptop when they get back to the apartment. John is torn between irritation and sympathy.

He peers into the fridge. Condiments on the top shelf and a half empty carton of milk. He shuts it again.

“What kind of food do you want, Sherlock?”

Sherlock hums and types on the laptop. John hovers for a moment longer before going to find the number for the pizza place down the street.

_____

“What do we do?” John asks after he’s managed to persuade Sherlock to take at least a bite of pizza. Maybe he should have ordered something lighter—Sherlock’s barely touched it past what John forced him to eat. The slice lays abandoned on the plate in favor of typing on the laptop.

“One enemy comes at us, the rest think it’s fair game to gang up,” John says, “We can’t afford to fight a battle on multiple fronts.”

Sherlock snorts, “We would be decimated in moments. If we were lucky, they wouldn’t play around with us too much before striking the final blow.”

John sinks onto the sofa next to Sherlock, “I see you’re brimming with optimism.”

“Come on John,” Sherlock says, “The answer is obvious. Think.”

At least Sherlock sounds like himself again, even if John’s irritated by it. “Sorry, I’m still recovering by almost being crushed by a cement truck. You know, about six hours ago.”

Sherlock looks up at him. “John,” he says, “You know more about what we have to do, at this moment, than I do.”

“I don’t follow.”

Sherlock leaps up onto the sofa, “I know Montes pulled you in for a long conversation. What were you discussing.”

“Diaz and—oh.”

“Do you see?” Sherlock smiles, actually smiles. He turns back to the laptop, “Now, to orchestrate the event.”

_____

John pours himself a cup of coffee from the office coffeepot when Montes enters and says, “Did you hear, Martin?”

“About what?”

“Diaz was shot last night. Turns out he was sleeping with the girlfriend of the Albino.”

John forces himself to keep his face neutral as he turns around.

_____

“I need a meeting with the Albino,” Sherlock says to Montes, “How do I send him a message?”

Montes looks at John. John nods. Montes looks back at Sherlock.

“I’ve got a cousin who could deliver it,” Montes finally says, “What do you want to say?”

_____

John leaves his gun in the car, figuring that the two guards loitering near the front door would just take it off him if he tried to bring it in. John’s clean-shaven for the first time in two months but hasn’t dyed his hair yet. He can’t help but feel self-conscious about being recognized.

A woman greets them at the front door, looking mostly at Sherlock as she speaks and leads them up the stairs to the Albino’s office. It smells like burning plastic inside the house and it reminds him a bit of the addicts who would show up in the A&E. Jesus, that feels like an eternity ago. The woman knocks on the door before opening it.

John doesn’t know what it was exactly that he was expecting. The Albino is exactly that—an impressively built man with long white hair and pale eyes. He looks first at Sherlock, then at John, and back to Sherlock. John looks around the office, calculating escape routes just in case.

“It’s an honour to meet you,” Sherlock starts. John wants to laugh but he can’t. “I heard about last night’s events and I wanted to extend my condolences on the misplaced loyalty.”

The Albino looks back at the ledger he’s working on, “You can stop the useless simpering. What do you want?”

The change in Sherlock’s demeanour happens immediately. The smile slips, his voice takes on an edge. “You have manpower but your business isn’t drawing in as much cash as it used to. Your profits have been steadily slipping by a significant percent. Summers are usually your most profitable months but this year Diaz expanded into your territory and converted crucial dealers. You’re several hundred thousand dollars in debt from all of those clandestine trips you took to Vegas and you don’t think that anybody else has noticed You command loyalty but loyalty isn’t enough to keep your men around—you need money to do that.”

The Albino stares at him, “How could you possibly—?”

“I have the money,” Sherlock says, palms down on the Albino’s desk, “I have a safe route, I have a business. But what I don’t have, are men who I know are absolutely loyal to me. You have that.”

The Albino looks down and closes the ledger. He folds his hands over the cover and looks back up at Sherlock. John tenses—poised to tug Sherlock towards the nearest exit.

“Tell me,” Sherlock says suddenly, “Have you ever heard of Vernet?”

The Albino watches him.

“I’ve heard of you,” Sherlock says, “I think we might run in closer circles than you think.”

“I see,” the Albino says.

“It’s a good offer,” Sherlock says, “You know it’s a good offer.”

The Albino says nothing. Then he says, “Give me time to think about it.”

Sherlock nods and turns towards the door. John keeps his eyes on the Albino while Sherlock has his back turned.

“How do I get in contact?” the Albino asks.

Sherlock doesn’t turn around, “Come find me.”

_____

“He said yes.”

John blinks awake from where he had been dozing on the couch. He pushes himself onto his elbows and peers at Sherlock over the back of the sofa. “What?”

“The Albino. New business partner,” Sherlock says, typing at the laptop still.

“That’s great, really,” John says and looks at his watch, “Sherlock, it’s nearly two. Are you going to sleep any time soon?”

Sherlock keeps typing. John lays back down and closes his eyes.

“Doesn’t that hurt your shoulder?” Sherlock asks.

John ignores him and keeps his eyes closed.

“Sleeping on the couch all the time,” Sherlock says. His voice is much closer now. John opens his eyes and sees Sherlock leaning over the back of the couch, “It must be uncomfortable.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes stray to the coffee table. He presses his chin into his wrist and then he says quietly, “Come to bed.”

John thinks for a moment that he’s dreaming. Sherlock couldn’t have—

“I’m okay here,” John says.

Sherlock looks at the coffee table for a moment longer. John watches the way that he pulls his lower lip between his teeth. Then he gets up and walks away.

_____

The flat is still unfamiliar so John keeps a hand on the wall as he moves in the dark. The bedroom is half-illuminated by the streetlamp. John sees the silhouette of Sherlock, turned on his side. He pauses in the doorway.

Sherlock’s breathing tells John that he’s not asleep. John has half a mind to turn and leave. But then Sherlock turns, sheets rustling, and John knows that he’s been seen.

John enters the room. Five steps to the side of the bed. John lifts the covers and crawls into the space next to Sherlock.

He lays on his back and listens to Sherlock breathe.

“I don’t know what you want,” John whispers into the darkness.

Sherlock’s hand touches the inside of his elbow. His fingers trail down the length of John’s forearm. He slips his fingers between John’s and holds, lightly.

John closes his eyes.

_____

“Martin, call for you,” Montes yells to John over the whine of the machinery. John pulls off his face mask and moves toward the office.

“Who would be calling me?” John asks. Montes shrugs and leaves the office, shutting the door behind him. The noise is cut substantially.

“Hello?”

“John.” Mycroft.

“How did you find this number?”

“You know, it’s exceedingly difficult to find and delete surveillance footage outside the jurisdiction of the British government. And yet, I persevered for your sake. Did you forget that you’d be caught on camera getting out of that truck? Or were you just too preoccupied with the idea of human eyewitnesses?”

The station with Kristina. Jesus. “What’s happened to the footage?”

“No need to worry,” Mycroft says, “Interesting that you went all the way to Phoenix. How’s the arm, Dr. Watson?”

“It’s fine.”

“And how is my brother?”

John clenches his jaw. He knows what Sherlock would want him to answer: “He’s fine.”

“No relapses?”

“No,” John says.

“Even though I can’t see your face, it’s still very obvious to me when you are lying,” Mycroft observes pleasantly, “In your case, it doesn’t particularly help that I’ve had thirty years experience with my brother.”

John isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. So instead he asks, “Are you going to try and come collect him?”

There is silence on the other side of the line. And then Mycroft says, “He hasn’t managed to kill the two of you yet.”

“Why did you call then?”

“I’m putting an awful lot of trust in you,” Mycroft says, “And I hope that trust is not misplaced.”

“Jesus Christ,” John says, “This call is two months too late. And it’s rich, coming from you, when you sold him out to Moriarty.”

“I see,” Mycroft says. Silence, and then, “Will you call my brother to the phone, John?”

Sherlock wouldn’t want to talk to Mycroft. “No.”

“I see,” Mycroft repeats, more softly. He clears his throat and says, “I’ll try my best to make your time overseas as easy as possible. Let him know that, will you?”

John doesn’t know if he wants to convey anything from Mycroft to Sherlock.

“I worry about him,” Mycroft says, “And by extension, I worry about you.”

“I’ll let him know,” John says.

“Thank you,” Mycroft says, “Stay safe.”

_____

“Ben,” Daniel says, crooking a finger at him. Sherlock glances over his shoulder. John wants to tell Daniel to fuck off.

Sherlock looks back at John, “Get Montes in touch with the mother company. You’ll have to take over his responsibilities—”

“Ben,” Daniel says, clapping a shoulder on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock keeps his eyes on John’s face, knuckles white around the clipboard he’s holding.

“Who are these people outside my factory?”

“You have a new ally,” Sherlock says.

“I didn’t want one.”

“You have no influence and therefore no manpower. The Albino will provide security as long as we pay him. You make more than enough to afford it.”

“I don’t want strangers guarding my factory,” Daniel hisses. His fingers dig into Sherlock’s shoulder.

John doesn’t remember moving. But the next moment he’s got Daniel’s wrist wrenched back (he enjoys the man’s hiss of pain far more than he ought to) and he’s saying very calmly, “Please don’t do that.”

“Montes!” Daniel yells. Montes appears at the end of the hallway. “Get this man out of here!”

Montes doesn’t approach them. John bends Daniel’s wrist even more and he actually whimpers. John wants to fucking break his arm.

“Martin,” Sherlock says.

John lets go.

“Estás completamente desquiciado,” Daniel snarls.

“Ben here might be kind enough to let you take liberties with his person until now,” John’s voice is low, “But I swear to god the next time you touch him, I will break every single bone in your body.”

Daniel doesn’t even look at John, just keeps his eyes on Sherlock. Sherlock’s face is carefully blank.

“Let’s finish our conversation in Montes’ office,” John says, recalling to his voice the sharpness of military command.

Sherlock’s eyes snap to his face. “Yes, of course.”

“I’ll tell him,” Daniel says, “Le voy a decir todo.”

Sherlock stops walking.

John can only guess at what Daniel means. “I don’t care,” he says, not turning around, “I don’t give a single bloody fuck.”

Sherlock hesitates. Then he follows John, away from Daniel.

_____

“Get rid of him,” John says, “Transition to the new figurehead. As long as we have a secure route with loyal workers, this place will run by itself. He’s dead weight.”

Sherlock sits at Montes’ desk and scrawls on a discarded piece of paper. John thinks he’s just writing for the sake of writing, so he doesn’t have to meet John’s eyes. “It’s hardly as simple as you make it out to be.”

“It doesn’t need to be any more complicated,” John insists, “The workers here are more loyal to Montes than they are to Daniel. If Daniel wants retribution, you’ve got the Albino to back you up.” John takes a breath and adds, “You’ve got me.”

Sherlock doesn’t even look up as he says, “It’s not that easy.”

John puts his hands on the desk, palms down. “Tell me,” he says, “Tell me what he’s got on you. Tell me why Daniel is the only person I’ve ever seen you be afraid of.”

Sherlock’s hand stills. “Nothing,” he says, “He’s got nothing on me.”

John wants to throw the desk against the wall. “I don’t understand, Sherlock.”

Sherlock touches his steepled fingers to his lips. “Give me more time.”

_____

It’s late. John can only stare at the computer screen for so long before his eyes feel dried out. Sherlock has been laying on the sofa for the last two hours, staring up at the ceiling.

“I think I’ve mapped out a reasonable timetable to fully secure the operation,” John says as he turns the computer off, “Mind you, I was a surgeon first and an officer second, so it’s possibly just all shit.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. John suddenly wonders how much it would cost for them to buy a violin. Nothing fancy like the one Sherlock has back at 221B—maybe a second-hand student’s violin.

“Right,” John says, pushing back his chair, “Sherlock. Um, look. I’ll defer to your plans on pretty much everything. But you have to promise me that you’ll keep all of the current workers at the factory.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, “Not a problem.”

“Okay,” John says, “I think I’m going to go to bed then.”

“I’ll be along in a moment,” Sherlock says, not opening his eyes.

John stands in the kitchen, unsure whether or not to kick Sherlock off the couch or just obey his dismissal. Eventually, he leaves to brush his teeth.

_____

John is half asleep when Sherlock slides into bed behind him. He makes a drowsy effort to scoot to the edge of the bed, but Sherlock puts a hand on his side, fingers spanning John’s ribcage over his thin cotton shirt. Sherlock’s forehead touches the nape of his neck.

John breathes out and relaxes before falling back asleep.

_____

A new shipment arrives. Montes has flown out to the production site in Mexico to familiarize himself with the leaders that only Daniel’s father had known before—so John is stuck with supervising the collection of the drug from the bulk cement truck. A fine layer of grey dust settles on his skin and clothes as the cement gets poured out into the bagging machinery. At the end, two men crawl into the back of the truck to haul out the heavy container packed with cocaine and heroin.

Fifty pounds of illicit drugs look more impressive in real life than it ever did in the movies.

_____

“How do you feel about expanding?” Sherlock asks the Albino.

“Shouldn’t this be a question you should be asking your leader?” he asks in return.

Sherlock smiles. “I am.”

_____

“This is absolutely preposterous,” Daniel shouts.

Sherlock looks him in the face, “You’re a liability to this organization. You waste our profits, you steal our product, you have done nothing to contribute in the last month. You’ve lost the loyalty of your own workers. You’re dead weight, Daniel.”

Daniel looks at John when he says, “You’ll regret this,” to Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

“Do you think they’ve noticed at all?” John asks over a dinner of Chinese takeaway.

Sherlock leans back in his seat and picks at his Mongolian beef. He’s barely touched the food beyond eating a few bites of rice. He probably thinks that the food is too heavy, that it’ll slow him down. John makes a mental note to buy more fruit.

“We’re still minor players,” Sherlock says, moving around a piece of cooked onion. He looks at John and his smile is genuine—three homicides and a kidnapping genuine. God, they used to be on the other side of the law.

“Let’s change that,” Sherlock murmurs.

_____

“There are at least five major dealers we haven’t made a move on,” Sherlock tells the Albino as he sets down a file on his desk, “And yet nobody wants to. Why?”

The Albino flips open the folder and examines the papers that Sherlock has collected. “This isn’t our territory.”

Sherlock crosses his arms. “You know, I’m rather partial to the idea of a monopoly.”

_____

John wakes before dawn. Sherlock’s head is under his chin, hair tickling his collarbone. His arm curls over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Christ. John doesn’t know what to think any more—which is fine, really, because he usually doesn’t have the _time_ to think anyway. This is so far removed from what he remembers at 221B, yet he can’t fully recall how they transitioned here.

He pushes his hand into Sherlock’s hair, fingertips against the scalp on the back of Sherlock’s skull. Sherlock’s hair is soft and his roots are coming in dark. John thinks that maybe he’d be able to stay like this for a long time.

But Sherlock wakes and he pulls away, digging the palms of his hand into his eyes, “What time is it?”

“Nearly five.”

Sherlock turns back into John’s chest for a moment. Then he rolls away and says, “Come on, let’s go.”

_____

Sherlock delivers forged notes. He sets a broken metronome on the front porch of a house. He slips almost-blank business cards under doors. John waits in the car, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on his gun.

By the end of the day, Phoenix is at war with itself.

_____

They keep a map of the south-western United States on the kitchen table. Every day, Sherlock marks the disputes he’s orchestrated and traces the ever expanding border of their territory.

John likes cooking. It’s the only thing that ever makes him feel normal any more. He half wishes that they had a television. He hasn’t relaxed since leaving London.

“We’re growing too quickly,” Sherlock says, head bent over the map. John slides the buttered chicken into the oven.

“We’re going to need more shipments,” Sherlock says, scribbling numbers onto a piece of paper, “We need to move faster and fill the gaps. We don’t have enough to pay everyone we need to.”

“Okay,” John says as he runs his hands under the sink. He uses dish soap to cut through the grease, “I’ll call Montes.”

_____

“I need your men to play up their connections to the territories we’re expanding into,” Sherlock tells the Albino, “Surely they must have relatives or friends whom they can convince of loyalty.”

The Albino looks from Sherlock to John, then looks back at Sherlock. “You really don’t know much about the average footman, do you?”

“That’s what you’re here for,” Sherlock says, “I strategize and you make it happen.”

Silence. For a moment John thinks that maybe Sherlock has gone too far. Then the Albino tips his head back and laughs.

_____

It’s perhaps a testament to John’s distraction that they’re caught by surprise.

He’s sitting at the kitchen room table, drinking tea when everything goes fuzzy in his peripheral vision and he starts to feel lightheaded. And from the way that Sherlock is moving his head from side to side, John thinks that he’s probably feeling it too.

The tea. There’s something wrong with the tea. John tries to tell Sherlock not to drink it, but his tongue won’t cooperate. His vision whites out.

_____

John slowly regains consciousness.

He’s handcuffed to the bed, one arm on each side, one leg on each side. Spread-eagled. He’s never felt more vulnerable.

He tries to move his wrists but they barely lift from the headboard. Everything feels slowed down. He can’t think well through the haziness in his head.

Someone leans over him. John’s vision is blurry. He can’t make out who it is. He wants to call out Sherlock’s name, but his lips won’t move.

“Are we awake yet?”

He knows that voice. Daniel. He tries again to move his arms but they won’t.

“And Ben, darling, are you awake?”

John forces his eyes open. There’s a hunched dark shape at the end of the bed. He can’t make out Sherlock’s face. Fuck.

“I need you both to be awake,” Daniel says, “I have something very important to tell Martin and I’d like for you to be here while I do, Ben.”

The shadow falls over his face again. Daniel tugs at John’s shirt, unbuttoning it.

“It’s a pity that you’re not my type,” Daniel tells John, “We could have had some fantastic fun.”

John tells him to go fuck himself. It comes out as a slurred moan.

“That’s fine,” Daniel says as he crawls onto the bed and sits between John’s legs, “We can still have fun.” He pulls at John’s undershirt and cuts through it with a knife.

“Nasty scar you’ve got there.”

John tries violently to shove him off, but it just registers as a jerk of his limbs.

“You’ve got quite a collection here, haven’t you?” Daniel says, patting John’s ribcage. He looks over his shoulder. “Ben, are you watching this?”

“Ben’s a little quiet today,” Daniel says to John, “I don’t think he likes me very much when he’s not high.”

No.

“When he’s high, it’s fantastic though,” Daniel leans over him, fingers pressing into the scar tissue at his shoulder, “Have you ever had sex while high, Martin? Euphoric.”

Daniel twists on the bed. “Do you remember this knife, Ben?”

Oh Jesus Christ—no, not again. John closes his eyes and feels a sharpness at his shoulder.

“Ben likes pain,” Daniel says, bearing down on the knife. It slices into the old scar but the bright pain is dulled by the haziness in his mind. “You should see him begging for it. Never words, mind you. But the way that he whimpers when I draw his blood. And the way that he opens his legs, just a little bit wider, rubbing up against my bed, leaking everywhere. He’s such a fucking slut for it.”

The pressure lessens. “You love it, don’t you?” And then it’s back, “He’s smart, I’ll give him that. But I’ve never seen such a desperate little whore. I don’t think he liked my dick very much, but he sure loved my cocaine. I made him suck off my friends once, just for a hit. Two of them, one after the other. Gagging for it, weren’t you? Just for a fat line. And he was so fucking hard afterwards, Martin, let me tell you.”

The knife draws over his chest. Daniel is reopening the starburst pattern. Warm blood running into his armpit. Pain.

“Ben though, Ben sometimes forgets where he’s at and who he’s with when he’s high,” Daniel pauses, pushing his knife in deeper. John thinks that he feels it scraping against bone. “Here I am, splitting him apart with my huge dick. I’m leaving bruises on his hips, pounding into him. He’s smashed up against the headboard, and I’m making him come so hard that he forgets his own fucking name.” Daniel leans forward, “You know whose name he doesn’t forget though?” Daniel’s voice is right next to his ear, “John.”

The knife is removed violently from John’s shoulder and Daniel finds another scar on John’s stomach, digs into the softness there.

“I thought to myself, who’s John? An ex?” Hot pain. John hisses out a breath between his teeth. “I didn’t figure it out until I heard you two talking in the factory once. Calling him _Sherlock_. Slip of the tongue? But now that’s a far more unusual name than John, isn’t it? Three seconds on Google and I have my answer.”

“It’s almost touching, really,” Daniel says, pushing his knife in and moving it to saw through muscle fibre, “You two are the most obvious I’ve ever seen. God knows why you haven’t fucked him yet, Dr. Watson. Too noble, maybe. But there’s only one way to treat junkies like Sherlock Holmes.” The blade sinks in deep. “Put your hand on their neck, push them face first into the mattress and use them like the worthless receptacles they are.” Daniel laughs. “Ask me how I know.”

The fury burns clear in John’s mind, an all-consuming red lust for Daniel’s blood—but his body won’t move. He imagines leaving Daniel in the desert for scorpions to devour piece by piece, imagines hanging him by a meat hook and carving him apart.

“He’s crying right now, you know,” Daniel says, “He cries and begs so prettily.”

He realizes that his wrists are bleeding from how hard he’s been straining against the handcuffs.

He needs to survive this, needs to kill Daniel with his bare hands. But he’s bleeding out so quickly and the pain is overtaking his mind—he’s afraid that he’s going to slip away before he has the chance.

The gunshot is like an explosion.

And then someone’s hands are on his face and Sherlock is saying over and over, “John, John, John.”

John sinks into the blessed darkness.

_____

John wakes to burning pain in his entire torso. He opens his eyes.

He’s bandaged completely from shoulder to waist. White against the dark sheets. He doesn’t recognize the room but he does recognize the body sleeping next to him.

He closes his eyes. The pain goes away when he sleeps.

_____

The second time John wakes, Sherlock is gone. He wants to curl up on his side but it hurts too much. He falls back asleep.

The third time John wakes, Sherlock has one hand in John’s hair, other hand on the touchpad of his laptop. Sherlock’s thumb rubs circles into the soft skin over John’s left ear. Sherlock must be preoccupied with something because he doesn’t notice that John’s awake.

John doesn’t mind. He likes this. He wants this to last. Eventually they’ll have to talk.

He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. And if Sherlock notices, neither of them say a thing.

_____

John’s thirsty when he wakes up next. The pain has subsided into a persistent ache. The blinds are drawn but Sherlock reads in the dim light anyway.

“Water?” John asks. His tongue is dry.

Sherlock reaches over to the beside table and cracks open a bottled water. John doesn’t even attempt to push himself up. The pain in his shoulder is dulled because he’s already lost sensation there. There’s a dull throbbing ache to his stomach though, a diffuse sort of pain that makes John wonder just how deeply Daniel cut.

Sherlock tilts the bottle slowly. It takes John a moment to remember how to swallow. Bloody hell.

“How do you feel?” Sherlock asks.

“Like shit, frankly,” John mumbles. It hurts to turn his head. He should ask for painkillers.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, “I should have seen him coming.”

“Don’t be stupid,” John says, “You couldn’t have seen that coming.”

Sherlock looks down at him. John realizes that he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, a clear space separating the two of them.

“Sherlock,” John says, “Come here.”

Sherlock looks at him but doesn’t move.

“I’ve been fucking carved up like a Christmas ham,” John says, “I feel like death warmed up and we don’t have to talk about anything until I’m not bleeding fresh with every movement I make so let me be selfish for three seconds and Sherlock, please come here.”

Sherlock moves over, lays down next to him. John closes his eyes. The bed shifts and Sherlock tucks his head gently against the crook of his neck. His lips touch the bandages on John’s shoulder and his hand curls around the inside of John’s wrist.

_____

John drinks the horrid protein shake concoctions that Sherlock brings him. Sometimes he looks at the laptop at their expanding territory in attempt to quell the restlessness of being useless. Mostly he just sleeps. He gets better.

“What happened to him?” John asks the third day that he manages to move around the flat without spotting his bandages. He pulls baked potatoes from the oven. The stitches across his stomach pull in protest but don’t bleed. If he can’t make it to the factory, then he’s at least going to be useful in making dinner.

“He’s dead,” Sherlock says without looking at John. “I shot him.”

_____

“Good to see you,” Montes says to John on the first day that he’s back.

“Good to be back,” John says and pulls on a face mask.

_____

It’s been two weeks. Sherlock doesn’t come back to the flat until late at night, usually after John’s gone to sleep. Montes tells John that Sherlock stays at the factory or runs errands for the Albino. John would be more concerned if he didn’t know that the bulk cement shipments were under constant surveillance and tracked obsessively.

John wakes late so he doesn’t catch Sherlock in the morning. But there’s always an imprint of a warm body in the space next to him.

John makes himself coffee and sits on the sofa, waiting for Sherlock. He had got as far as boiling water in the electric kettle before turning on the coffeemaker and dumping the hot water in the sink. Too soon to be drinking tea again.

It’s nearly midnight when the door opens. John’s coffee is cold. Sherlock pauses in the doorway, looking at John before stepping inside.

“You’re still awake.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Sherlock pulls the gun from his back pocket and sets it on the kitchen table. He opens the fridge.

“We have to talk about this at some point,” John says, getting to his feet.

“No,” Sherlock replies, shutting the fridge door, “We really don’t.”

“For what it’s worth, Sherlock, I don’t care about anything he said.” He watches Sherlock move over to the coffee machine, opening the top to look at the grounds, and then closing it again. Something to do with his hands.

“Maybe you should,” Sherlock bites back, back still turned to John, “Everything he said was true.”

Sherlock turns then, and he’s got a wide smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes, “Does it disgust you, John? To know that I was on the ground with another man’s cock in my mouth, thinking about how nice that next hit would be? And how eagerly I sucked them off?”

“Stop.”

“Does it bother you that Daniel put his cock in my arse? Would you like to know exactly where he used that knife on me? Or what my—” Sherlock’s already shaky voice trips, “—reaction was?”

“Please,” John can’t look at Sherlock. “Don’t do this.”

“It bothers me,” Sherlock says, “I think it’s disgusting.”

Christ.

“Yes, John, let’s analyze this,” Sherlock’s voice smoothes out into a monotone, “In fact, let’s analyze my entire sexual history. You might find it surprising that I have never once had sex completely sober. It might not surprise you, however, to discover that almost every time I had sex, it was for more cocaine. Let’s assume for a moment that I am not me. I am a nameless stranger on the street. What would you label me as?”

“Sherlock. Why are you doing this?”

“A worthless junkie whore,” Sherlock spits out, “And isn’t it just absolutely lovely that my past has caught up with me and brought me back to exactly where I was one decade ago?”

Sherlock’s heavy breathing. He wipes his mouth and turns around, stares back at the coffeemaker with the palms of his hands against the counter.

“Sherlock,” John says, “You need to stop using.”

Sherlock bows his head. “I want to stop.”

Silence.

“I had such noble intentions,” Sherlock says and laughs. “I wasn’t going to at first because I knew how easily I could slip. And then I didn’t have enough hours in the day so I decided to use just a tiny dose. Just to stay awake a little longer. John will never know.” He looks up at the ceiling and laughs again, “John will never know. Look where we are now.”

John steps forward and puts a hand on Sherlock’s back. At least Sherlock doesn’t move away.

“I’m not strong, John,” Sherlock says.

John can’t stand the sight of Sherlock’s slumped shoulders, can’t stand to hear the defeat in his voice. “You deserve better than what you do to yourself.”

Sherlock doesn’t move. He keeps his face turned away when he says, “I’m sorry.”

_____

“I’ll stop.”

John turns his head and ignores the pain. He looks at Sherlock’s profile in the dim light. There are four inches of space between their arms.

“You deserve better,” Sherlock says. “You deserve someone better.”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is quiet.

“Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock says. He turns on his side, his back to John. “Good night.”

_____

Sherlock takes up smoking again.

John leaves boxes of nicotine patches on the kitchen table, but they’re never opened. Sherlock sits on the floor of their tiny balcony and lights one cigarette after another, tapping the ash against the railing so it gets swept away by the wind. John buys him an ashtray. Sherlock ignores that too.

Sherlock works mostly from the flat. He taps against the table with his fingers, leg jiggling as he waits for pages to load on his laptop. Sometimes he paces the kitchen and rearranges the three appliances on the counter.

Sherlock speaks to him in short, terse sentences. Most of the time, they’re angry demands: “could you refrain from making so much noise?” when John cleans the flat and “pasta again, really?” when John cooks dinner.

John keeps his irritation to himself. The important thing is that Sherlock is no longer using.

_____

“I need a case,” Sherlock mutters as he throws a rubber ball against the wall from where he’s laying on the couch. His toes are under John’s thighs and John can’t figure out if he put them there on purpose.

“It’s been a long time since I heard that.”

“Four months,” Sherlock says, “It hasn’t been that long.”

“It feels like forever,” John says, “Being a criminal isn’t exciting enough for you?”

The ball thuds against the wall. “There’s nobody here to catch me.”

“Your brother knows.”

“As if he would turn me in,” Sherlock snorts, “Boring. Nothing to do except bid our time until Moriarty’s network sits up and takes notice.”

“Think Mrs. Husdon has rented the flat out to someone else?”

The ball stills in Sherlock’s hand. A missed beat. Sherlock throws it again and it thuds. “Preposterous.”

“Where would the two of us go?” John means for it to be a joke, but it comes out too earnest. Fuck.

Sherlock smiles, a quick flash. His toes curl under John’s leg.

_____

Montes taps John’s shoulder. John turns and leans toward him, pulling the facemask down.

“There’s someone here to see you and the other one.”

John glances around for Sherlock, “Where?”

“The office.”

“Okay,” John says as he spots Sherlock detailing new delivery routes to a driver, “Tell them I’ll be there in a minute.”

Sherlock doesn’t turn around when John puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“We have a visitor.”

Sherlock looks at John.

“Do you think?” John asks.

Sherlock hands the maps to the driver and dismisses him.

“It could be no one,” John says. They reach the door.

John knocks before opening it. The person inside turns around.

“Well,” Irene Adler says after a moment, “This is unexpected.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Helen. ♥

“You’re supposed to be dead,” John says.

“Please John,” Irene replies, “You’ve already fallen for that trick once. As far as the world is concerned, Irene _is_ dead. I mostly go by Victoria these days.”

“I see Moriarty’s made you a full agent,” Sherlock says.

“Hang on,” John interrupts, “You knew she was alive?”

“We’ve kept in touch,” Irene says, “Or we had until these last four months.”

“I switched handles,” Sherlock says.

“Was that you in Philadelphia?”

“Did you recognize my style?”

“Vernet? We’ve got files on you. It comes with a sample. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in telling me who you pose as now.”

“I prefer keeping my anonymity.”

“You might be less anonymous than you think.”

“Then you wouldn’t need to ask.”

Irene leans against the desk and smiles at the two of them. “Well this has been rather more interesting than I thought it would be.”

“You’re here for a reason,” John prompts. Irene looks at him.

“Recruitment,” Irene says, “But I’m not sure if that would be in the best interests of our organization any more.”

John doesn’t let the panic and disappointment show on his face. Irene could be convinced.

Sherlock steps forward, eyes on her face. And he says, “You owe me.”

_____

“Do you trust her?” John asks when she’s left.

Sherlock looks at the airplane tickets in his hand. “No.”

_____

It’s a fifteen hour flight from Los Angeles to Hong Kong. John feels well enough to take the bandages off but he keeps looking down to check that he hasn’t bled through his shirt.

Sherlock leans his head against the window and falls asleep. John sits in the middle, hands on the armrests, and wishes he had bought a book at the airport newsstand. Irene plays Sudoku on her phone.

“He told me you lied to him about me,” Irene says, not taking her eyes off her phone, “Noble. Misguided, but noble.”

“And now you’re working for Moriarty.”

Irene looks at him, “Does that really surprise you?”

“No.” And, “I don’t trust you.”

“You would be a fool to, Dr. Watson,” she looks past him, at Sherlock, “You can’t trust anybody in this business.”

John doesn’t take the bait. “Why Moriarty?”

“He gave me an opportunity. I stayed because I enjoyed the work. You wouldn’t know, but Moriarty’s name opens a lot of doors in our world. He’s got quite the prestigious reputation.”

John looks at the back of the seat in front of him.

“Careful, John,” Irene says, “We operate on an entirely different level than what you’ve seen so far.”

_____

John is half asleep in his seat when he hears Irene whisper, “Have you figured it out yet?”

Sherlock’s voice is low, “Have I figured what out yet?”

“You and John.”

Silence.

“You remember our agreement,” Irene says.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, and they fall silent again.

_____

Sherlock taps his fingers against the armrest he shares with John, looking out the tiny window at the sea of clouds below. They’re flying west, chasing the sun.

On impulse, John slides his hand below Sherlock’s wrist and fits his fingers between Sherlock’s. Sherlock stills and glances down. John squeezes and keeps looking forward.

Sherlock glances at him. His lips twitch before he looks back out at the clouds.

_____

“I hope the accommodations will be adequate,” Irene says as they stand in the elevator to get to the twenty-fourth floor of the residential high-rise, “I think one of the bedrooms is currently in use as a study—” she glances at John as she says this, “—but I’m sure it wouldn’t be too difficult to convert it into a second bedroom if you need it. I’ll give you a forwarding address for your bills. We’ll pay for everything, as long as you keep reporting back.”

“What’s the mission then?” John asks.

Irene just smiles at him as she unlocks the door to the flat. It’s modern. The furniture is polygonal. Abstract art lines the walls and a metal sculpture sits in a pot next to the island counter in the kitchen. Granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. John doesn’t want to think how much this place costs.

Irene picks up a manila folder from the coffee table in the living room. One wall is a window that looks out at the skyscrapers of Hong Kong. John steps towards it as Irene hands the documents to Sherlock.

“This is the only copy of instructions you will receive. Memorize and destroy it. You are expected to work independently for the next three months. Beyond living expenses, we will not assist you. At the end of three months, we will assess the results you’ve obtained and the efficiency of the techniques you used to get them. If we decide you’ve adequately met the standards, you will be asked to join the core team.”

John turns, “And if we don’t meet the standards?”

Irene keeps smiling, “What do you think, John?”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, flicking through the papers.

Irene plucks a piece of paper from the folder that Sherlock is holding and finds a pen. She scribbles down a number and slips it back into the folder.

“This is where I leave you,” Irene says. Her hand lingers on Sherlock’s wrist. “You know how to contact me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, lifting his eyes from the pages.

She steps away and nods at John, “Good luck, Martin.” She turns and smiles over her shoulder, “Benedict.”

The door closes after her.

_____

“It’s all intel gathering,” Sherlock says as they sit at the kitchen table and John starts to sort through the papers in the file.

John shakes his head and flips to a new page.

Sherlock gets up and opens the door to the balcony. He lights a cigarette and steps outside. John glances over the few papers that are left before joining Sherlock outside.

“Three months?”

Sherlock taps the cigarette against the railing he’s leaning against. “Three months, maybe less. I haven’t decided if I want to play their game yet.”

“What other choice do we have?”

“If they’re assessing us, then there’s a contingent of them here in this city watching us. The only people competent enough to asses recruits for the core team are members of the core team themselves. Figure out who they are and I’m sure we could convince them to lead us back to their headquarters.”

“Convince,” John repeats.

“In times of desperation,” Sherlock says, “Perhaps it’d be in our best interests to adopt a lax attitude about morality.”

_____

There’s a washer and a dryer in a closet off the main hallway. John pulls the clean sheets from the dryer and proceeds to make the bed. Sherlock emerges from the bathroom, hair still wet.

“You should redye your hair,” John says.

Sherlock pauses to examine himself in the mirror over the dresser. His roots are obvious despite the overall darkness of his wet hair. “Maybe I’ll revert back to black.”

“You could get it done professionally.”

Sherlock runs the towel over his hair, “Waste of time.”

John straightens the corners of the sheet. Sherlock flings the towel onto the modern-looking armchair in the corner of the room and climbs onto the bed just as John flings pillows onto it. Sherlock grabs one and puts it behind his head. He lays on his back and folds his hands over his stomach. John tosses him the blanket and goes to brush his teeth.

When he returns, the lights are off but the wall of window is wide open. The lights of night-time Hong Kong are reflected in the watery gleam of the harbour. John stands in front of the window and stares.

“John,” Sherlock says. John turns back towards the bed and moves to kneel on the clean sheets.

“I miss London,” John admits quietly.

Sherlock watches him with half closed eyes.

“I miss our flat,” John says. He lays down, careful of his shoulder. “I miss having to yell at you about putting blood in the kettle. I miss—” John stops there. It doesn’t help to think about the past.

“Do you regret it?” Sherlock whispers, “Coming with me.”

“No,” John says, “Never.”

Sherlock shifts so that he’s on his side. John turns his head to look at Sherlock. He’s so close that John thinks that he can make out the corona of gold in Sherlock’s blue eyes even in the dim light. Sherlock touches the inside of his upper arm, a minute pressure against his elbow. He licks his lips and looks at John.

 _Inevitable_.

“Will this change anything?” Sherlock whispers.

Quiet exhale, “No.”

Sherlock moves forward and presses his closed mouth against John’s lips. Neither of them move, they just breathe in the shared space. And then Sherlock’s hand moves, fingertips trailing up along John’s neck before settling on his jaw. John opens his mouth a little and Sherlock tentatively touches his tongue to John’s lower lip, a sweep of soft pressure. Sherlock moves closer, drags his fingertips across John’s neck until he’s got his hand in John’s hair, at the back of his head, and pulls John gently towards him. It’s familiar and novel all at once—a natural extension of what they have been and what they will become.

Sherlock’s other hand touches his stomach through the cotton shirt, slides down and lightly palms John’s cock through his boxers. John takes a shuddering breath and turns his head, “Are you—”

Sherlock climbs over him, knees around John’s hips as he steadies himself with one hand, other still at the back of John’s head. He kisses John again, a smooth slide of their tongues against each other, his teeth grazing the inside of John’s lower lip—and when he pulls back he whispers, “I have never been so sure in my life.” He touches his mouth to John’s jaw and traces John’s jugular with his tongue. John sinks his hands into Sherlock’s hair and gasps quietly when Sherlock finds a sensitive spot on the side of his neck. Sherlock runs his tongue over it and sucks lightly.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, shifting his hips. Sherlock responds with just the briefest hint of teeth before he pulls away and presses his nose against the crook of John’s neck. The hand in John’s hair loosens and Sherlock touches cool lips to the still-inflamed skin on John’s shoulder.

John brushes a thumb over Sherlock’s ear and strokes his hand down the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock keeps moving. He pushes John’s shirt up and places butterfly kisses over the ugly lines of red on John’s stomach. John tilts his head back and says, “Sherlock,” shakily when Sherlock pulls down John’s boxers and drops them onto the floor. John’s half-hard and he can’t stop the stupid tremor in his leg because _Sherlock_. Sherlock strokes his fingertips across John’s hipbone, his inner thigh, the top of his knee, and then he lowers his head and fits his hand around the base of John’s cock, nuzzling the tip with his lips. John stifles a groan into a shaky exhale. He wants to raise himself on his elbows at least to watch, but his shoulder can’t yet fully take his weight.

Sherlock runs his tongue over the underside of John’s cock. John spreads his legs and his hips inch up until Sherlock pins him back down. Sherlock tilts his head and mouths at the side of it, his hair brushing up against the inside of John’s thigh. He slides his tongue under the foreskin and closes his mouth around John, fingers tightening at the base. John tilts his head back against the pillow and god, Sherlock’s mouth. Pressure and warmth, Sherlock’s tongue pressing up against the slit over and over as his hand tightens and moves.

The pleasure collects low and John hasn’t felt like this in a long time, hasn’t wanted to writhe with the sensations, hips bucking rhythmically against the strength of Sherlock’s weight pressing him down. He makes a strangled sound to warn Sherlock that he’s about to come and then he does, his entire body tensing with the pleasure and _Sherlock_.

When he comes back to himself, Sherlock is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. John strokes at his shoulder. Sherlock lifts his weight off John’s hips and stays there for a moment with his arms caging John’s torso and head bowed. John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and murmurs, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock pushes himself back. He drops a kiss on the side of John’s knee and slips off the bed, padding into the bathroom. 

A spike of panic cuts through John’s post-coital haze. He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed and follows Sherlock into the bathroom. Sherlock leans against the bathroom counter, palms down and he’s staring into the sink. John hates it—hates himself—and he hates the way his voice breaks when he asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says, so quietly that John barely hears it, “Go back to bed. I’ll be back in a second.”

John wants to say no. John wants to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s waist, wants to put his face into the space between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, wants to take away every bad memory that Sherlock’s ever had. He wants to press himself into Sherlock until they bleed together, until Sherlock has conclusive evidence of how much he fills the empty spaces inside John.

 _Love_ is not a strong enough word.

“Okay,” John says and it hurts him more than anything but he turns around and slips back under the covers because it’s what Sherlock needs.

Later, Sherlock climbs into bed. He turns on his side so that he’s facing John. John turns his head to look at him, but Sherlock’s already closed his eyes.

John reaches into the space between them and fits his hand into Sherlock’s. Sherlock strokes the side of John's pinkie with his own. John closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

_____

Morning illuminates the room, direct sunlight shining past the curtains and landing on Sherlock’s outstretched calf. Sherlock is still asleep when John wakes up. He lies on his back, sheets twisted across his waist and John’s good arm is numb from where he’s lying on it. John carefully extracts himself and works the feeling back into his fingertips again.

Sherlock’s eyes move under his eyelids but he doesn’t wake. John turns onto his front and touches the hollow between Sherlock’s collarbones. He follows the sweep of the bone up to Sherlock’s shoulder: smooth skin, pale against the tanned tone of John’s fingers. He spreads his fingers and drags light fingertips down the span of Sherlock’s arm, settling at the delicate skin inside his elbow. Goosebumps trail in the wake. John bends his head and kisses the inside of Sherlock’s wrist.

When he looks up again, Sherlock’s eyes are open. John kisses the wrist again, tongue sliding against the tendons, before he moves his lips to Sherlock’s palm, tracing his lifeline with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock just watches him, breathing steadily.

John slips one of Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth, and watches the way that Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut, lips parting. John smiles around the finger and trails his tongue along the sensitive pad. Sherlock rolls toward him and drops a hand on the back of his neck. John lets the finger go. A moment later, Sherlock is kissing him.

John pushes himself up and Sherlock moves so that he’s laying on his back again, head tilted, watching John through half closed eyes. He ignores his shoulder and moves so that he’s straddling Sherlock’s waist. He leans forward and kisses Sherlock’s Adam’s apple, burying his nose at the corner of Sherlock's jaw.

“I never thought,” John whispers.

Sherlock touches the back of his neck.

John moves to kiss Sherlock’s other shoulder, down his chest, the warm skin of his stomach. Sherlock’s muscles jump under his lips and John stops to press his tongue against each one. He keeps going until his chin is pressed against the elastic of Sherlock’s briefs and he looks up at Sherlock who is propped up on his elbows, looking like he’s still half asleep. John can feel Sherlock’s half-erection against his neck.

John traces the edge of Sherlock’s underwear with his tongue. Sherlock tenses—barely noticeable, but John can feel it—so John keeps going down, tongue pressed to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. He touches the back of Sherlock’s knees with his fingertips, kisses his sun-warmed calf and pauses with his lips on Sherlock’s anklebone. They’re stilled for a moment, then Sherlock turns his foot, rubs his toes against the side of John’s neck. John laughs against Sherlock’s leg.

“Come back up here,” Sherlock says, far too lazily for it to be a demand. John goes.

Sherlock touches his face and smiles. John thinks he’ll remember this moment forever.

“Okay,” John finally says, “A lot of stuff to get done today.” He moves to the edge of the bed and is about to slip off when Sherlock catches his wrist.

“Hang on,” Sherlock says, “You don’t want to...?”

John gives Sherlock a smile over his shoulder, “You tell me when you’re ready.”

_____

Sherlock divides the pages into three piles. John drops vegetable oil into a pan and heats it before cracking in four eggs.

Sherlock is working on his laptop by the time that John sets a plate of breakfast down in front of him. He stirs sugar into Sherlock’s coffee and sets that in front of him too before taking his own seat. He picks up toast in one hand and sifts through one of the piles with the other.

“They're in order of priority,” Sherlock says without taking his eyes off his laptop, “You’re looking at the least important.”

John switches to one of the other piles. _Determination of possible security breaches in the following list of buildings. Location and details about the following biohazardous materials. Extraction of personal information from the following people. Exploration of concealed routes within the city._

“What do you want me to do?”

Sherlock holds his hands out for the papers without looking at John. John puts them in his hand. Sherlock shuffles through them before picking one and setting it on the table to circle certain parts of the list. He slides it back over to John.

John eyes it. _Determination of possible security breaches in the following list of buildings._

“I’ve circled all the ones that are open the public,” Sherlock says, looking back at his laptop, “It might be easier if you could find blueprints though nothing quite beats observation.”

“Okay,” John says as he scans down the list. Five buildings. With any luck, they would be close to each other. He taps at Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock looks at him.

“Eat your breakfast.”

_____

John works out the mass transit system and take the Tsuen Wan Line up to the Hong Kong Museum of Art. The building looks heavy: all ninety degree angles and a complete lack of windows. Tickets cost ten dollars and John takes longer than usual with the unfamiliar money.

“Are you visiting, sir?” the receptionist asks with a smile.

“Just in for a few days,” John says, “Can you tell me what’s famous here?”

Ten minutes later, John stands in the Xubaizhi collection, looking at the calligraphy. He steps from piece to piece, wishing that he had more experience with the type of security used in housing art—or at least had stolen the laptop from Sherlock briefly to read up on it. He looks at the corners of the room and notices the security cameras painted white. There’s a fire exit at the far end of the room, opposite of where he entered.

John realizes that he really has no idea what he’s doing.

He clenches his jaw and looks at a painting of mountains. This was not the time to be useless. Focus.

If he were trapped in this room with hostile forces at each entrance, how would he get out?

He pretends to read a plaque and scans the walls for vents, raises his eyes to the ceiling to look for loose tiles and walks around the gallery until he works out how best to avoid the cameras.

It’s probably not to Sherlock’s level, but it’s a start.

_____

Sherlock hasn’t moved from his position at the kitchen table since this morning when John gets back to the flat. He’s eaten an egg and a half (sucked the yolk from the half still congealing on the plate) and one of the pieces of toast. He hasn’t gotten dressed.

“Results?” Sherlock asks without looking at him.

“I only managed to look at two of the buildings,” John says, taking off his shoes.

“Well,” Sherlock says, “It’s your first day. I’ll let it slide.”

John clears the half eaten plate from the table and scrapes the remains into the bin, “I was thinking.”

“Good,” Sherlock answers absently.

“I was thinking—” John repeats more loudly, “—that there’s no way that this person who’s tracking us could have an eye on both of us at any given point in time, right? Unless there’s more than one person, but why would you spare two people to evaluate when it sounds like your core team is small?”

“Hm,” Sherlock says. John has no idea if he’s even listening.

“What about the cameras?” John asks, “There were cameras everywhere I went today. What if they had access?”

“Done,” Sherlock says.

“Sorry?”

“Done,” Sherlock repeats, actually looking at John this time, “I already messaged my contact who can hack into closed circuits. Right after you left this morning, in fact.”

“Oh.”

“Decent idea,” Sherlock says and looks back at his laptop, “He said he’d get back to me if he found anything unusual.”

“Um,” John says, “Do you think there are any in this flat?”

“I did a sweep yesterday while you were in the shower,” Sherlock says, “None.”

“Good,” John says a bit too quickly. Sherlock looks at him again, and John swears he's smirking.

“I’ll make dinner,” John says, and gets up.

_____

John is in the midst of cutting a pineapple when Sherlock asks, “You would prefer to be a bioethics consultant, wouldn’t you?”

“Over what?”

“Hm,” Sherlock says, “Doesn’t matter. I’ve already decided.”

“Why even ask, then?”

Sherlock swings the laptop towards him.

“Our new company. I had some help inputting it into the legitimate databases.”

John looks at the sleek logo and can’t help but smile. “So I'm a doctor again.”

_____

Sherlock climbs into bed four hours after John turns in. His arms and legs are cold as he slips in behind John. John half wakes and mumbles something under his breath when Sherlock puts a cold hand against his ribcage, long form settling against John’s back.

Sherlock’s nose presses into his hair and his thumb moves in circles against John’s side. John decides that he doesn’t mind sharing his body heat after all and goes back to sleep.

_____

Sherlock is awake before him. He has a mug of coffee on the table in front of him and he’s staring at the laptop again.

“You made coffee,” John says, reaching for the pot.

“Make more,” Sherlock replies, “I have additional locations for you today.”

“Am I abandoning yesterday’s list?”

“No, but this is more important,” Sherlock says, “My contact got back to me. He checked all the closed circuit cameras for the buildings I gave you yesterday and found that other computers had accessed the networks as well. He gave me a list of the IPs and I pinpointed them to these physical addresses.”

“Okay,” John says, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder to look at the map on the screen, “What does this mean?”

“It means that it’s possible that our tracker frequents one or more of these locations,” Sherlock says, “The experiment will have to be repeated, of course. Go to the buildings I give you today and we’ll match up the accessing IPs tomorrow against the list we get tomorrow.”

“Are we also going to these places today?” John asks, gesturing at the screen.

Sherlock taps at his lips. “No,” he decides, “We don’t want to alert him of our intentions any earlier than necessary.”

_____

“Ticket, sir?”

John rummages in his pocket and tries to look surprised and panicked as he says, “Oh, I think I left it in the restroom. Um, excuse me.”

The usher turns to the next person in line and John slips back into the crowd. A glimpse inside the auditorium gave him a good estimate of how big the basement would be. He shoves his hands back into his pockets and relocates the stairs he saw earlier. As long as he looked like he knew where he was going, he wouldn’t be stopped.

He’s walking through the basement of the concert hall, noting the layout of the practice rooms and scanning for cameras when somebody shuts a door behind him. “Are you lost?”

John turns around. The woman in front of him holds a violin.

“I thought I would surprise my girlfriend.”

“You’re not allowed down here,” she says, “You’re late anyway. You’ll have to go upstairs to see her.”

“Oh,” John tries to smile, “Okay. Thanks.”

She doesn’t move until he heads back towards the stairs. She watches him all the way until he’s back at the top.

Well. Hopefully not entirely wasted.

_____

“Two hits from the same IP,” Sherlock tells John when he gets home, “Excellent.”

“Hello to you too,” John says.

“Come here,” Sherlock demands and John does. Sherlock pulls him down and kisses him until John’s laughing against his mouth.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s jarring, really, to see at a high-end leather goods store with its sleek wares and modern lighting sharing space next to a run-down noodle shack with slices of raw meat and seafood on display under a fluorescent lamp. None of the signs are in English. Sherlock doesn’t seem to take notice though. He’s looking up at the apartment complexes above the stores.

“Here then?” John asks, looking up at the apartments too, but unsure what he’s looking for.

“Access time could correspond with lunch,” Sherlock says, looking down at the raw dough hung in the window, “That’s assuming our tracker even eats meals on time. He likely finds this place convenient. He wouldn't come out of his way, considering the quality of the sanitation. Lives in this neighborhood.”

“He’ll be Asian.”

“Not necessarily,” Sherlock says, “Another address.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, “Let’s go.”

_____

A beauty salon next to an internet gaming cafe.

“Well it's obvious then,” John says, looking at the gaming cafe.

“It’s not the cafe,” Sherlock says as he leans down to inspect an advertisement pasted in the window of the beauty salon for discount haircuts, “Interesting.”

“What is?”

“Access from this point was prolonged.”

“Getting a haircut?”

“Long wait for a man’s trim.”

John looks at Sherlock, “Maybe it was a busy day?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock snorts, “Monday should be the busiest day for most salons yet we see nobody here today. No.” He straightens and tucks his hands into his pockets, striding away from the salon. “We've got the wrong gender.”

_____

Sherlock prints him two hundred pages of text to read. “Crash course in bioethics. Significant court cases relating to medical research, a few about response protocols to biohazardous security breaches. I stuck with what you already know.”

Medicine and the military. John doesn’t even have time to ask if he’s really expected to read all of it before Sherlock’s gone out the door.

He picks up the first article. The font size is miniscule and John thinks that he ought to get prescription glasses soon. Maybe when they go back to London.

If they ever go back to London.

John pushes that thought away and starts to read.

_____

“How close?” John whispers. Sherlock’s fingers stroke through his hair. “How close do you think we are to going home?”

Sherlock shifts so that he’s curled up with the top of his head touching John’s chest. “Don’t think about that, John.”

_____

“A bakery,” Sherlock says as he enters the flat, “An apartment near the Polytechnic University. A woman’s shoe store.”

“So definitely female then?”

“She checked in twice at the university, four hours apart.”

“So she stayed there. Student?”

“Perhaps. Younger than I expected if the shoes she was looking at were any indication. Four inch heels.”

“That’s certainly—” John says, “—something.”

Sherlock sits at the table and steals the laptop from John.

“We only ever get the locations the day after, though,” John points out, not at all irritated by the loss of laptop. Relieved, even, that he doesn’t have to stare at more casefile summaries. “How do we chase her down in real time?”

_____

Sherlock hands John a dark blue tie, subtly textured. John holds it up to his throat and looks at himself in the mirror.

“It’s a good choice,” Sherlock says.

John loops it around his neck. His muscle memory is a bit rusty and the tie ends up being too short. He pulls it loose.

“Let me,” Sherlock says, pulling the silk from John’s fingers. John lifts his chin and Sherlock knuckles brush against his neck as he ties it. His fingers linger on the full Windsor for a few beats too long before he looks up at John. John shrugs on the jacket as Sherlock steps back.

“How do I look?” John asks, “Mind you, I can’t cut the same dashing figure you do, what with your ridiculously long legs and all.”

“You look good,” Sherlock says and smiles.

_____

The gala is held on the roof garden of a finance centre skyscraper. Lights illuminate the space inside, reflecting off the glass roof. John will never get used to the tinkling of glassware against tables and silver plates. He doesn’t know how Sherlock managed to get their names on the guest list, but the hostess just smiles and lets them through.

They're looking for five targets today. John has memorized their faces from candid photographs pulled from Google images: businessmen shaking the hands of other businessmen in celebration of various company mergers. He knows some of them only by profile, others only by their full face, and he’s not entirely sure he can pick them out of a crowd this large.

“Relax,” Sherlock says touching the palm of his hand to John’s shoulder as he looks around at the other people in the room, “I’ll check upstairs. You look around down here.”

John nods and Sherlock’s hand lifts from John’s shoulder. A moment later he’s gone.

John takes a glass of champagne from a passing server and starts to walk around. He’s half hoping to find one of the two female targets—it’d be easier to try to awkwardly charm one of them rather than brute force his way into impressing one of the male targets. He’ll leave Sherlock to do that.

“You’re here alone too?”

John turns. The young woman who spoke smiles up at him. She’s Asian, a bit short despite her heels and wearing a dark blue dress with her hair up in a styled ponytail. She’s not one of the targets he’s looking for.

“Er, not exactly. I’m here with my, uh, boss.”

“Oh yeah?” she swirls her wine glass, and John suddenly gets the impression that he’s being toyed with, “What do you do?”

“Bioethics consultant,” John says, “Though I’d much rather hear about what you do.”

“I’d rather not bore you,” she says, “I’m kind of in between jobs at the moment. I’m actually here to do a little networking.”

“Maybe I could put you through to my boss,” John regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth because what if she accepted the offer? “We’re always looking for new consultants.”

“I have a pretty specific skill set,” she says. A beat and then—oh god, had he just been half-flirting with an _escort_? Sherlock will kill him if he doesn’t die of mortification first. “I don’t know if I’d really fit in,” she adds. And then her eyes go over his shoulder.

“Martin,” Sherlock says from behind him. John half turns. Sherlock looks at the woman who stares back. And then he says, “I like your shoes.”

“Thank you?” she replies as she takes a step back.

“I’m sure I don’t need to introduce myself,” Sherlock continues, “Seeing as you already know who we are.”

The confusion melts away. “Ah.”

“Did you introduce yourself to Martin?”

“So, you know my name?” she’s smiling.

“Does it matter?”

“Well since you seem to know what I am, I rather suppose it does.”

John steps in. “Why don’t we go somewhere more private?”

“No,” the woman says, “I think my attention is needed elsewhere now.” She turns to leave but Sherlock grabs her arm.

She looks down at his hand. “Really?”

“I have a few questions,” Sherlock says.

“This isn’t reflecting well on you at all, you realize.”

“It won’t take long.”

She steps toward Sherlock and puts a hand on his hand, “We’re not here to help you.” John sees what she’s about to do in the moment before she does it but he doesn’t pull Sherlock back fast enough.

The heel of her shoe comes bearing down on Sherlock’s right toes as she wrenches away and slips into the crowd.

_____

“She has to leave,” Johns says, “At some point she has to leave.”

Sherlock presses his steepled fingers to his lips, “There are other exits. She wouldn’t leave through the obvious one.”

“There’s only one set of elevators and that’s the one we came up in. Same one she came up in.”

“No. She probably planned for this possibility when she decided to make contact. She probably scoped this building out before she arrived tonight.”

“You’re giving her a lot of credit.”

“She’s part of Moriarty’s core team. Perhaps you aren’t giving her enough credit. The catered fare is too light to require use of the kitchen here yet we haven’t seen any of the servers come up through the elevators reserved for the guests. She’ll go down the service elevator,” Sherlock looks up and scans the room.

“Servers have more food near that wall,” Sherlock points, “Elevator must be behind that guard. Make a distraction. I’ll meet you back at the flat.”

“Are you serious? Are we just abandoning what we were here for in the first place? The targets?”

Sherlock just looks at him before turning and disappearing into the crowd. John hesitates, then follows him towards the hallway that he had pointed out. He grabs a flute of champagne from a nearby server and glances over at the guard to make sure that he’s close enough to see.

He taps a random man on the shoulder. When the man turns around, John throws the champagne in his face.

The people around them stop talking. John looks horrified and says, “Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I thought you were—”

Two security guards grab his arms.

_____

John opens the door to their flat and stops. The woman is sitting on their couch with her wrists handcuffed in front of her.

Sherlock looks up the moment he enters. “You certainly took your time. Gun on the counter.” John looks to his right and picks the gun up. He sits in the chair next to Sherlock, across from the woman.

“I’m supposed to stop by the British embassy to sort out the charges against me,” John says.

“Unnecessary. We’ll be gone by the time the paperwork is assembled.”

“Poor form,” the woman says, “I’ll have to dock points on technique.”

“She calls herself Sam,” Sherlock says, “She’s been appallingly uncooperative.”

“I could say the same for you,” Sam replies.

Sherlock keeps his eyes on John as he addresses the woman, “Unless you have something constructive to add, do shut up.”

John turns towards Sam, “Nice to meet you.”

She just looks at him.

“Martin, you were in the military,” Sherlock says, “How did they interrogate people?”

“Sleep deprivation,” John says, mind going back to the documents he had read only a few days ago, “Stress positions. Hypothermia sometimes.”

“Boring,” Sherlock says. He gets out of his seat and reaches for his jacket. “I prefer more medieval methods myself.” He looks at Sam, “I’ll be back. Going to see if I can buy a power drill. You don’t need all of those fingers, do you?”

Sam doesn’t look away, but she moves her handcuffed wrists closer to her body. Sherlock smiles and leaves.

Silence. Sam looks down at the floor.

“A bioethics consultant,” she says without looking up, “That’s a good one.”

John moves to the armchair that Sherlock’s vacated. He leans forward on his knees and studies Sam. Without Sherlock in the room, she seems to shrink, shoulders hunched and head bowed. Her heels are gone and her coat is thrown into a corner of the room.

“How old are you?” John asks.

She looks up at him through her now-messy bangs. “You think I’m too young.”

“I’m not underestimating you, if that’s what you think.”

Silence. And then she says, “Twenty-one.”

John tries not to look surprised, but does a shit job of it if the way her nose wrinkles is any indication. He thought she would have at least been five years older. “And Moriarty—”

“Like I said,” she says, “I have a very specific skill set.”

“How did you know where we were?”

She hesitates. John’s had enough experience with Sherlock to recognize when somebody wants to brag about their abilities.

“I'm just really impressed. You didn't know how we'd prioritize the assignments and there were at least fifty different places we could have been for any one assignment,” John says, “And yet you found the right cameras, every time.”

She fidgets, then brushes her bangs away from her face with her handcuffed hands. John watches her.

“I developed a face recognition program,” she says finally, “It’s got a match success rate three-hundred and eighty percent greater than any military-sanctioned program. I pull images from cameras all over Hong Kong constantly and feed them into this program to match up against your faces. When the program pings back with a good match, I access the specific cameras in that particular location.”

“That’s,” John says, genuinely impressed, “That’s actually brilliant. How did you develop something like that?”

She grins at him for a moment before her expression shutters and she stares back down at the ground, “I’m good with computers.”

“Why are you working with Moriarty? You could probably have your pick of any company you wanted.”

She doesn’t look up at him again. “Moriarty he—the organization made something go away for me. And they helped me with my sister. So I still owe them.”

They sit in silence for a few moments before John asks quietly, “How old is your sister?”

“Ten,” a pause, “No, eleven.”

“She’ll be starting secondary school then.”

Silence again. Sam turns her head and looks out the window at the night-time skyline of Hong Kong across the harbour. “I haven’t seen her in three years.”

“Where is she?”

“They won’t tell me. Ireland maybe.”

“What about your parents?”

She looks at him and laughs, “Where do you think my parents are?”

_____

When Sherlock returns, Sam is curled up on the sofa, asleep. John put the discarded coat over her and now he sits on the armchair, gun on the coffee table between them.

Sherlock actually has a power drill. John sits up straighter when he sees it. His voice is hushed, “You weren’t actually—”

Sherlock sets it down on the coffee table, looking from John to Sam, “You tell me.”

“No,” John says, “God no. She’s just a kid.”

“And yet old enough to be part of Moriarty’s syndicate. Old enough to hold her own against two grown men, however briefly.”

“She’s only twenty-one,” John hisses, “Twenty-one, doesn’t want to be in this business and Sherlock please don’t tell me that you’re sulking because we might have run into someone who’s just as smart as you.”

“Really, John?” Sherlock's eyes narrow and John can't tell if he touched a nerve.

“Look,” John says. “We need her. She’s young and I really don’t feel comfortable about—” he gestures at the power drill, “—that. We can convince her to help us.”

It takes a few moments before Sherlock says, “Fine.”

“I’ll watch her,” John says, “If she wakes up or anything. You should go to sleep.”

Sherlock doesn’t move. But then he touches a hand to the back of John's neck and says, “Good night,” before disappearing down the hallway.

_____

John drinks coffee and sits in the dim light of the tabletop lamp in the living room, looking at the lit silhouette of buildings across the water. For everything they’ve done in the last five months, he feels like he should be more exhausted.

He looks down at the scars on his arm. The redness has gone down but his skin is still uneven. There are faint suggestions of a “T” and an “R” in the heel of his palm. John doesn’t know what the man had been trying to write. _TRAITOR_ maybe. He closes his hand into a fist and his pinkie and fourth finger are still stiff to move. If he had any hope of a miracle to get the steadiness of his surgeon's hands back, this would have killed it.

He doesn’t have to lift his shirt to see the ugly scar on his stomach. That one he gets to examine every time he soaps himself in the shower. And the one on his shoulder, scars on top of scars. Jesus, he’s a mess.

It’s an easy trade though. Sherlock doesn’t have any ugly scarring and John would do it all over again in the exact same way to keep it that way.

_____

Sam turns over onto her back sometime around five-thirty in the morning. The sky is lightening at the horizon and John is on his third cup of coffee.

“He actually got a drill,” she says quietly to the ceiling. John looks up from the article he had been reading.

“I’m not going to let him use it.”

“I don’t really like him,” she says after a moment. She glances at John.

“He can be a right prick,” John agrees.

“You don’t like him either?”

John laughs because he has no idea how to reply to that. How could he express in words what Sherlock was to him, exactly? How does he explain the paradox between his simultaneous independence and co-dependence? How he’s John Watson at the same time that he’s becoming an extension of Sherlock Holmes?

God, he’s in a maudlin mood tonight. “We’re complicated.”

When she doesn’t say anything else, John offers, “You know, he’s probably actually intimidated by you a bit.”

“And shows it by threatening to drill my fingers off.”

“He doesn’t meet a lot of people who are as smart as he is.”

Silence. The links of the handcuffs click together. And then, “Is he any good with computers?”

“Chemistry suits him more. And detective work.”

“And how about you?”

“Oh god no,” John laughs, “I’m not nearly at the level of you two.”

“Hm,” she says and turns back over onto her side. At least she’s facing him though. “Did you ever go to university?”

“I’m a doctor, actually,” John doesn’t know if he’s being stupid in revealing this much about himself, about them. Maybe she’ll put the pieces together and work out who they actually are. But he has a good feeling about her—and right now he just wants her trust. “Served on the RAMC for a while.”

“And you’re a criminal now.”

John takes a sip of his coffee. The sun rises steadily in the east. “You’re also a criminal.”

“It’s not like I had a choice,” she says, then frowns.

“We didn’t have much of a choice either.”

She looks at him for a long time before she closes her eyes.

“Sam,” John hesitates and then he asks, “Do you want to see your sister again?”

_____

“Shanghai,” Sherlock repeats, “A city that operates primarily in a language other than English, where Caucasians can easily be singled out.”

“Such an unlikely choice for a base of operations that it becomes the best choice?” John suggests, “Last place the authorities would expect to find you?”

“Last place where the authorities would come after us,” Sam says, “The relationship was established a long time ago. As long as we keep investing in the right officials, they turn a blind eye.”

_____

“Are you sure?” John asks Sam for the third time.

“Yes I’m sure,” Sam replies. They’re at her one-room flat and she’s packing clothes into a tiny suitcase, “I only compile the results and send it to Moriarty. Recruits aren't that important. I’m the only one assigned to making sure you don't get out of hand. Everyone else is busy with stuff that’s more important.”

“Flight leaves in two hours,” Sherlock says as he leans into the doorway, “Hurry up.”

_____

It’s less than a two hour flight from Hong Kong to Shanghai.

John sits between Sherlock and Sam. Sherlock insists on the aisle seat. No doubt he’s concerned that Sam might try to make a break for it.

The magazines in the seat back pocket in front of him are in Chinese. All around him, he hears only the low murmuring of words he doesn’t understand. When they land, the pilot speaks in rapid-fire Cantonese and repeats his words in Mandarin before finally telling them in halting English that the local time is five-twenty three PM and the weather in Shanghai is ten degrees Celsius with a good chance of rain. John is utterly out of his depth.

Sherlock touches John’s knee with his leg. John looks at him. Sherlock keeps his eyes straight ahead but he smiles briefly.

John tries to smile back.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam’s Shanghai apartment is located in eastern Pudong, barely ten minutes by cab from the international airport. It’s a cramped space and one of the windows overlooks an alleyway where two chickens cluck and scratch at the dirt.

“Sorry,” Sam says as she opens the windows to air out the smell of mothballs, “They gave me a pretty cheap apartment here since I only come in on technological consults every once in a while.”

“It’s fine,” John says, even as Sherlock wipes away the dust that’s accumulated on the tiny box television with a finger. Sam disappears into the kitchen and John looks around. The only bed in the apartment is wooden with no mattress—pillows laid over a reed mat.

“If you have your own money, I can give you the names of a few cheap hotels around here,” Sam says as she returns, “I can’t use my card since they’ll be tracking it. Otherwise, my sofa folds out into a futon.”

John looks at Sherlock. Sherlock rubs the dust off his fingertip and manages a smile, “This will be fine.”

_____

Sam refuses John’s company to go to the market. “I already don’t speak the regional dialect” she says, “They’d try to rip me off even more if I brought a foreigner with me.”

“We should follow her,” Sherlock says, the moment her footsteps fade down the stairs.

“Have a little faith, Sherlock.”

“She could be turning us in,” Sherlock says, “She practically knows who we are.”

“She wants to see her sister. She wants to go to university. She can’t do either of those things if she turns us in.”

“She could just be toying with us,” Sherlock insists.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock crosses his arms and looks out the window. John keeps a gun close to hand, just in case.

_____

Sam washes out a pan and sets it on the gas stove. She pulls out a chopping knife and tests the edge of it with a finger before turning her attention onto the washed vegetables in the sink.

“When was the last time you saw Moriarty?” Sherlock asks from the couch.

She flicks water off the leaves into the sink and says, “I’ve never met him.”

“You work for him,” John says, “What do you mean you’ve never met him?”

“I’ve talked to him over the phone once. At least I think it was him,” she places the vegetables on the wooden board and starts to chop, “I get my orders through text, usually from Moran’s number.”

“Who’s Moran?”

“The second-in-command,” she glances over her shoulder at them, “He’s the only one who’s in regular contact with Moriarty. Or so he says. Sometimes I have to wonder if Moriarty even exists.”

“He exists,” Sherlock says, idly flipping the television remote in his hand.

“I’ve never seen him,” Sam says, “I don’t think any of the other recruits have either. And if we have, we weren’t even properly introduced.” She steps across the kitchen, “External liaisons definitely haven’t. Some people don’t take him seriously because they’ve never met him, but he always sorts those out quick and nobody has to ask twice.” She palms a cigarette lighter off the top of the refrigerator and lights the gas stove. “It’s why his name opens doors. Nobody wants to be on his bad side. He's like this supernatural entity.”

Sherlock has his fingers steepled against his lips as he stares at the wall. “Tell me,” he says, “How many people work for Moriarty?”

“On the core team? Maybe twenty. External liaisons? Hundreds. They’re just a text away,”

Sherlock smiles. “Interesting.”

_____

Sherlock’s already asleep. John stands at the open window and listens to the clatter and laughter of their neighbours downstairs playing mahjong.

Sam sits in the plastic chair next to him. She pulls her feet up onto the seat so she’s hugging her knees and looks at Sherlock when she says quietly, “You really think he can do it?”

“Yes,” John says and he’s a little surprised by how quickly the answer comes. “With your help, I think he can.”

She puts her chin on her knees. John has a hard time believing that this is the same young woman who had taunted them at the gala barely a week ago.

“My sister is all I have left,” she says, “I don’t have any friends any more. I can’t make friends because of what I do.” She looks at the ground again, “Sometimes I go to the university and I pretend that I’m a student. I want to correct the professors and I want to tell them how to make their code more efficient but I can’t, because I’m not supposed to be there.”

“We’re going to find your sister,” John says.

“You don’t know what Moriarty can do,” she says, looking up at him.

“When he’s gone,” John promises, “You’re going to walk away into a new life.”

_____

Pale twilight filters through the windowed ceiling of the lobby and birds chirp from the indoor trees. The elevators are straight ahead. One receptionist texts on her phone while the other one types on the computer. The security guard is deep in conversation with a man in a suit.

“Stay close to me,” Sam instructs quietly, “This is Moran’s territory and we don’t want to let him know that you’re here. Look casual, like you belong.”

_____

The office that Sam leads them to is deserted. She pauses as they enter and scans the open space of cubicles before looking over her shoulder at them. “Okay. Follow me. Keep your head down.”

Sam takes a convoluted path through the cubicles, sticking close to the partitions and never raising her head above the walls. John follows her in a low crouch. They end up in an open office at the back of the room.

“This is the computer I work on when they have me come in on consults,” she says, as she shuts the door after them, “It can access the main database. If there’s anything useful about the organization, it’s going to be located on the main database.” She seats herself being the computer and starts to type. John can’t follow the screens that flash up on the computer screen, but Sherlock seems fascinated.

“Fair warning: most things get deleted from the database after a month. Ongoing or important projects might stay a little longer but never longer than six months. Long term reports get hidden away on temporary addresses until we want to retrieve them.”

“Is there a full list of addresses somewhere?” Sherlock asks.

“It’s encoded,” she replies, shoving their flash drive into the USB port, “I wrote the program but I don’t have the key. Only Moriarty has that.”

Sherlock taps his fingers against his arm as he watches Sam work. John moves to glance out the window and then to the door to keep a lookout.

“Okay,” Sam says, “It’s all yours.”

John turns around to see Sherlock seating himself in front of the computer. The screen is reflected in his eyes.

Sherlock smiles as he scrolls. “Interesting.”

_____

John is helping Sam chop eggplant when Sherlock wanders into the kitchen and says, “You’ve changed the way that instructions are sent.”

Sam looks at him. She’s on her tiptoes, rummaging through the spices in the cabinet, “What?”

“There used to be three columns,” Sherlock says, “The first column used to be a cipher, the last two the address of a website with further instructions. There are four columns here.”

“Oh,” Sam shuts the cabinet, “Yeah, there was an alarm back in July when there was a break-in at an external liaison. The idiot was writing everything down in notebooks. I got called in to design a new system.”

John exchanges a look with Sherlock.

“Look,” she says, “I just realized that we don’t have any soy sauce or vinegar and the market’s about to close. I’ll explain it to you as soon as I get back.”

She grabs her jacket and her bag and holds up three fingers, “Three minutes. I’ll be back and you’ll have your answers. Promise.”

_____

Fifteen minutes pass.

John dumps the eggplant into a bowl of water. He wipes his hands and says, “There’s something wrong.”

Sherlock finally looks away from his computer screen and looks at his watch. He stands and reaches for his jacket.

“Er,” John says, “Should one of us wait here in case?”

“Stay here,” Sherlock agrees and reaches for the doorknob—just as it opens.

There’s a strange man standing in the doorway with Sam in a headlock under his arm. Sherlock takes a step back.

“Hello,” he says, looking between Sherlock and John.

“Run,” Sam gasps out. The man’s arm tightens around her neck.

“I’d advise against that, actually,” the man says, “See, you have something of mine and I’d really like it back.”

“Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock says.

Moran smiles. “And I know your face, of course. Jim was over the moon about finding you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Moran steps into the apartment, dragging Sam with him. She claws at his arms but he doesn’t seem to notice that he's bleeding from her scratches. He keeps his eyes on Sherlock.

“You’ve been very useful, Sam,” Moran says, “We’ve been wondering where you disappeared off to, Mr. Holmes. Jim was so excited about carrying out the last bit of his plan and you just—you just took that from him. So yes, thank you Sam, for leading me to enemy number one.”

“Let her go,” John says, “She has nothing to do with this. We forced her to bring us here.”

“Let her go?” Moran laughs, “She wasn’t coerced. She willingly gave everything up to you, didn't she? You painted a pretty picture of what the future could be like, and she played straight into your hands like putty.” Moran shakes Sam and puts his mouth close to her ear, growling low, “You’re a stupid fuck, you know that.”

She’s crying as she tries to pry him off.

“Do you know what we do to traitors?” Moran growls. He throws her to the ground and she struggles to breathe, back heaving. Moran pulls a gun from his back pocket and points it at her.

She looks up, right at John and rasps out, “Hong-mei.”

“Don’t!” John shouts the same moment the gunshot explodes.

She slumps forward, face first into the ground. Blood streams down the back of her neck and pools on the cement floor.

“Oh god,” John hears himself saying. He’s only peripherally aware that there’s a gun trained on him.

“Let’s not do anything stupid,” Moran says. He sees the whiteness of Moran's teeth bared in a grin but not the gleam of the gun.

Second gunshot.

Moran’s head hits the doorframe in a spray of blood. John barely registers the death.

“We have to go,” Sherlock says.

“We can’t leave her,” John says.

“In five minutes this flat is going to be swarming with policemen. We need to go.”

John can’t move. He looks down at Sam. She doesn’t have any family. The police won’t know who she is. She deserves a proper burial.

Sherlock touches his arm, then his face and he says, “John, I need you, I need you to come with me. I can’t leave without you.”

John forces himself to take a breath. And then he reaches forward to pick up the gun (that killed Sam) from the ground and says, “Let’s go.”

_____

They’re on a bus headed south towards Hangzhou. There’s a television playing a show about feudal China attached to the ceiling near the front. The muted noise of clanging swords and foreign dialogue reaches them all the way in the back. John barely noticed that Sherlock had used his piss-poor Mandarin to buy them bus tickets and that the other passengers hadn’t bothered to hide their staring. John hadn’t cared. Now, he stares out the window at the dark fields.

Sherlock has his laptop open and he’s scrolling through columns of numbers. Maybe trying to figure out what Sam’s new system is.

“I have to find her sister,” John whispers, “When we get back.”

Sherlock turns his head to look at John. John looks at him. The light of the computer screen reflects off Sherlock’s cheek.

“Okay,” Sherlock says.

_____

Sherlock drinks coffee in their hotel room and alternates between reading old reports and staring at line after line of indecipherable encrypted instructions on the computer. John brings Sherlock more coffee and food that he ignores—cigarettes if he starts getting too frustrated—and stays out of his way.

They need to move fast. Every hour leads closer to the hour that Moriarty tires of tarnishing the Holmes name and finally decides to look in the right direction. John keeps his gun close at hand and half expects hunters to crash through their hotel door at any moment.

_____

John is accidentally asleep on top of the covers when Sherlock crawls onto the bed next to him and shakes his shoulder. The lamp is still on when John jerks awake and opens his eyes to look at Sherlock.

“I’ve got it,” Sherlock announces. He’s grinning. “John, I’ve got it. We can go home.”

John is awake now. Home.

“London,” Sherlock says, “We can go home to London.”

“Jesus Christ,” John says.

“I’ve figured out the code, I have all the information I need,” Sherlock says, “We can go back.”

“Baker Street,” John says and pulls Sherlock down for a kiss. Sherlock grins against his lips and John slides his hand into Sherlock’s hair, pulling him closer. Sherlock adjusts himself so that he’s straddling John’s hips. He tastes like terrible coffee and stale smoke but John keeps kissing him anyway, pushes at the hem of Sherlock’s shirt with his fingertips until Sherlock gets the hint and pulls away to draw it over his head. It’s been weeks since they’d last touched.

“Come on,” Sherlock demands against his mouth and John pulls his shirt off too.

The lamplight illuminates everything. Sherlock’s eyes are immediately drawn to the scar on his shoulder and he pulls away to touch it.

“No,” John says, closing his hand over Sherlock’s fingers, “It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock asks softly. He touches John’s temple with his fingertips and traces down his cheek. John catches his wrist and presses a kiss to the palm of his hand. They stare at each other, John’s lips against Sherlock’s hand, Sherlock half leaning forward over him.

Sherlock pulls his hand away slowly. He shifts his weight off John and slips off the bed. John sits up, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock disappears into the bathroom. John has half a mind to follow him when he reappears and tosses something at him. John catches it reflexively and opens his hand. The unscented lotion.

“I want you to fuck me,” Sherlock says. He unbuttons his trousers.

“Sherlock,” John says, “I don’t want to do something—”

“You told me to tell you when,” Sherlock slips out of his briefs and crawls back onto the bed on top of him, “I’m telling you now.”

John touches Sherlock’s jaw, not sure what he’s looking for in Sherlock’s face. “Okay,” he breathes, “Okay if you’re sure.”

Sherlock hooks his fingers into the elastic of John’s boxers and pulls them down. John tosses them onto floor with a flick of his ankle and reaches for the lamp.

“Leave it on,” Sherlock says. John stills and looks back up at him. Sherlock smiles tentatively.

“Come here,” John murmurs and Sherlock leans down to kiss him again. John strokes a hand down his side and Sherlock shifts against him, cock sliding against the crease in his thigh. He’s still soft but John’s intent on changing that. He flips them over.

“Is this okay?” John asks, looking down at Sherlock. Sherlock tilts his head back and hums. John can’t help but put his mouth on Sherlock’s pale throat. Sherlock’s fingers sink into his hair. John presses his tongue against the pulse in Sherlock’s neck, traces the vein down and leaves a bruising kiss on his collarbone. Sherlock’s hands tighten in his hair when he presses teeth against the bone and John leaves an apologetic kiss.

John slides down and is pleased to find that Sherlock’s half hard. He hasn’t ever given a blowjob before, but he knows what he likes, so he tries to keep his lips over his teeth and mouths the head of Sherlock’s cock, applying firm pressure at the base with hand. He tongues the slit and Sherlock’s hips jerk, cock hitting the roof of his mouth. He pulls away.

“Sorry,” Sherlock whispers. John kisses his inner thigh and goes back at it. Sherlock’s hands are back in John's hair as he tries to take more of the cock into his mouth. He can’t take more than a few inches at most. He’ll have to get better.

He moves his hand too, a slow pace as he licks at the underside of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s breathing gets more erratic but he’s quiet—John can’t tell how he’s doing except for Sherlock’s hands in his hair, clenching and loosening sporadically. He pulls away after a moment and admires his handiwork: Sherlock’s cock flushed with blood against the pale skin of his hips.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs and John crawls back up to kiss him. Sherlock makes a face at tasting himself on John’s tongue and John laughs low against his cheek. Sherlock nudges his nose against John’s ear and says, “Come on, John.”

John grinds against Sherlock. He likes the feel of Sherlock’s erection against him, hot skin against his hip. Sherlock's breath hitches against his ear.

“Can you do it?” John asks as he presses the bottle of lotion in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock looks into his face with half closed eyes before nudging John off. John scoots back as Sherlock sits up and squirts the lotion onto his fingers. He smears it around before squirting more and looks up at John as he angles his hips and touches himself, circles the hole once before pushing a slick finger in.

“Christ,” John breathes. Sherlock’s finger disappears in to the second knuckle and Sherlock sounds like he’s making an effort to control his breathing. He pulls out and uses two fingers, palm against his balls as he pushes in. His erection is starting to flag. John moves forward and kisses Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock has his eyes closed as he curls his fingers inside himself, and god, the way that his breath shudders—

“Come on John,” Sherlock half whines on a long exhale, “It’s good, I’m ready. Please.”

John squirts a sizeable amount of lotion on the palm of his hand and he runs it over his cock. Sherlock has his eyes open again, reaches for him and closes his still-slick fingers over the head of John’s cock. He circles the crown with his fingers and lifts his hips, “In.”

John grips Sherlock's hips as he positions himself, “Like this?”

“Like this,” Sherlock agrees, “Your face.” He moves his hips so that he’s touching John and all John needs to do is press forward and—

“Okay,” John whispers and god, Sherlock is tight, so fucking tight. Sherlock’s fighting the urge to tense up—John can tell by the tremor in his legs. John doesn’t move, just kisses the gasps from Sherlock’s mouth until Sherlock is pressing back against him. John sets a slow rhythm at first, not pulling out all the way and letting Sherlock adjust.

“Come on,” Sherlock growls, heels digging into the small of John’s back and John quickens his pace until Sherlock makes low noise at the back of his throat every time he meets John's thrusts. It’s good, it’s so fucking good because Sherlock is gasping and his nails are drawing blood from where they’re pressed in John’s back and John doesn’t care at all, just wants to keep collecting the noises that Sherlock’s making in his ear and—

Sherlock tenses and John doesn’t stop but he pulls back, wants to see Sherlock’s face. Sherlock comes between their joined bodies and his eyes are wide and unseeing on John’s face. Good, oh god, so good, and John can’t control his thrusts as he pounds into Sherlock, and sobs a breath against Sherlock's shoulder as the pleasure overtakes him and whites everything out.

Sherlock’s hand is in his hair.

“Sorry,” John whispers, forehead still pressed against Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock kisses the curve of his ear. John gets his breathing back under control and pulls all the way out. He stays draped over Sherlock for a few more moments, and then he rolls over.

John puts a hand on Sherlock’s stomach and starts to doze. Sherlock lays next to him for a while before sliding off the bed. John opens his eyes long enough to see him go into the bathroom.

Later, Sherlock lifts the covers and crawls back into bed. He fits his head under John’s chin and John is conscious long enough only to check for the gun on the beside table and to throw an arm over Sherlock's shoulder.

_____

Morning sunlight. John wakes to see Sherlock’s bare back, sitting at the edge of the bed.

He reaches out to touch Sherlock’s straight spine, runs a thumb over the dips in the small of his back. His voice is scratchy, “Good morning.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. John frowns and pushes himself up.

“I understand—” Sherlock says, and the stiff tone of his voice wakes John immediately, “—if you didn’t want to continue this—” his voice breaks and it’s a moment before he continues, “—us. When we get our life back.”

“Sherlock,” John whispers—no, no, no.

“I harbour no illusions about the psychology of extraordinary circumstances,” Sherlock continues, “And I am fully aware that our circumstances have been extraordinary indeed. So when the time comes and you realize that you don’t want this any more, I won’t make you stay.”

“You fucking idiot,” John snarls. What the fuck? What the hell was this? Why would Sherlock—? “What are you saying? Do you even know what you’re saying?”

Sherlock doesn’t turn. John climbs off the bed and kneels in front of Sherlock.

“Look at me,” John says. Sherlock lifts his eyes off the floor.

“Since before,” John says, “I’ve wanted this since before we ever left.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just looks at him. There is a blankness in his eyes that scares John.

“This isn’t just a _thing_ ,” John says. He touches Sherlock’s cheek, wants Sherlock to understand this more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. “You. Me. Us.” His voice shakes. “Sherlock, I’m promising you forever.”

_____

The flight from Hangzhou International Airport to London Heathrow is fifteen hours.

When they land, John lets out a breath and thinks, _finally_.


	12. Chapter 12

They wear hats and keep their faces down to avoid the attention of any cameras. They can’t avoid Mycroft for long—but Sherlock insists that they avoid him for long enough.

Sherlock carries with him a briefcase that contains the laptop, the flash drive, the external hard drive, and the camera. John carries nothing except a winter jacket and a wallet with identification for Martin Freeman.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks and John has to stop himself from laughing because this is it, they’re back in Britain and John has never been happier to hear that accent. There’s only James Moriarty standing between him and what he didn’t dream of getting back these last six months—and they’re so close he can almost taste it.

And if they’re going to die, they’ll die in their own land.

“Chichester,” Sherlock says, and the cab starts driving.

_____

“Stop here,” Sherlock says as he taps on the window, “I’ll give you an extra thirty if you wait.”

The cab slows to a halt next to a pawn shop. There’s a food shop on one side and an mobile phone shop on the other. The cabbie glances at them in the rearview mirror, “Sure thing, mate.”

“Why are we here?” John asks as he joins Sherlock on the pavement. Sherlock looks up at the pawn shop sign.

“Get food and water,” Sherlock says, “We might be waiting for a while. I need to contact Mycroft.”

_____

John picks up cheese, fruit and bottled water. He hasn’t had cheese since leaving Phoenix. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabs a bag of crisps as well and heads to the front.

A picture of Sherlock on the front cover of _The Sun_ catches his eye. He pulls it out of the rack. _THE INVENTION OF MORIARTY: HOW FAR DID THE LIES EXTEND?_ There’s a picture of Richard Brook smiling sheepishly at the camera in one corner and a picture of Mycroft's profile in the other. John’s jaw clenches and he throws it in with the rest of the food.

It’s been six months. Six months and Moriarty is still dragging Sherlock’s name through the mud. John isn't particularly surprised that he’s gone after Mycroft too.

Sherlock isn’t outside by the time that he’s finished with the shopping so he stands on the pavement in front of the pawn shop with his arms crossed to wait. He breathes in the cold air (god, it’s been so long) and a piece of graffiti catches his eyes. He moves a few steps to his left to get a better look. Someone has spray-painted _I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES_ across the side of a skip.

“Touching, isn’t it?”

John turns. The briefcase is gone and in its place is a violin case.

“Apparently we have supporters,” Sherlock says, still looking at the graffiti. He glances down at the plastic bag in John’s hand, “And Moriarty is still smearing my name.”

“Mycroft’s too,” John says, “You have a violin.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock adjusts his grip on the instrument, “If there’s a chance I’m going to die today, I thought I’d indulge myself.”

“Did you sort out what you needed?”

Sherlock looks at him and smiles, “Shall we?”

_____

“Where to now?” the cabbie asks.

“The original destination. Chichester High School for Boys.”

As they pull back onto the road, the cabbie says, “Has anybody ever told you that you look kind of like that fake detective? Your hair’s different though.”

“Multiple times,” Sherlock says and catches John’s eye.

_____

The cab driver takes them as far as the front gate of the campus. Sherlock hands over money that John can only assume he obtained at the pawn shop and the two of them climb out of the car.

“Moriarty attended this school,” Sherlock says, “Carl Powers came here too.”

The grounds are deserted. It only strikes John then that the students are on Christmas holiday.

Christmas. Jesus. It's like they returned from a completely different planet.

“Come on,” Sherlock says.

_____

There’s a window half open leading into the locker room of the sports centre. Sherlock sets the violin down and says, “Help me up.”

John locks his fingers and boosts Sherlock up. Sherlock’s foot scuffs the wall as he tries to gain purchase, then he tips forward through the window. John listens for a crash but there is none. 

A moment later, Sherlock appears around the corner. “I’ve opened the door.”

John picks up the violin case and follows Sherlock inside.

“There’s no swimming pool,” Sherlock says, “I was rather hoping there would be. It would have been poetic.”

“I don’t think justice requires irony.”

Sherlock smiles and opens the doors to the basketball court. Grey light filters in through the high windows, illuminating the entire space in dim light.

“This will work fine,” Sherlock says.

_____

They sit in the circle in the middle of the court. The sound of the violin bounces around the huge room, amplified by the echoes of empty space. Sherlock tunes the instrument by ear before launching into a brief song and then slowing down to a halt. John skims the article in _The Sun_ before getting angry enough to shove it back into the plastic bag.

Sherlock just gets to his feet and smiles down at John, bow poised over the strings. “What would you like me to play?”

John looks up at him. He curls a hand around Sherlock’s ankle and wills them to make it out of here alive.

“I wish I had a gun,” John says, “I can’t protect you like this.”

Sherlock laughs, and says, “You’ve protected me more than you’ll ever know.”

“You are,” John says, “The most human human being that I’ve ever known. I owe you so much.”

Sherlock touches the top of his head and says softly, “Likewise, John.”

_____

The doors open.

John gets to his feet. Sherlock doesn’t stop playing the violin.

Six men with guns file through the door. They split up, three on each side and raise the guns to their eyes. John doesn’t have to look down to see the red sights vibrating on his chest.

He watches Moriarty walk through the door. He has his hands in his pockets and eyes only for Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn’t stop playing. He draws the last note out and lowers his bow. Moriarty claps. It echoes.

“I wasn't sure you would show your face again,” Moriarty says, smiling, “Sherlock Holmes.” He rocks forward, “I’m glad you did though. I was starting to get worried that I would never see you again.”

Sherlock sets the violin back down in its case. John watches the red dots dance on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock clicks the case shut and straightens back up.

“Nothing to say to me?” Moriarty asks, “I’m heartbroken.”

Sherlock looks at the men surrounding them.

“Oh Sherlock,” Moriarty says, “Don’t _bore_ me.”

“Do you like the location I chose?” Sherlock asks, “Moriarty started here, you know.”

Moriarty laughs. “How adorable.”

“I like the articles you wrote about me,” Sherlock says, clasping his hands behind his back as he looks at Moriarty, “Richard Brook, is it?”

“I had a final solution for us, you know,” Moriarty says, “But then you went and ruined everything.” He shakes his head, “I was _so_ disappointed. We could have made such beautiful headlines.”

“Let me guess,” Sherlock says, “Suicide of Fake Genius?” John glances at Sherlock but Sherlock keeps staring at Moriarty.

“Oh good,” Moriarty smiles with his teeth showing, “Very good.”

“I’ve had enough,” Sherlock says. He steps forward and the red dots slide back into position. Sherlock doesn’t take his eyes off of Moriarty, “I don’t need you any more, Richard.”

“Oh Sherlock,” Moriarty sighs, “Are your feelings hurt?”

“I don’t have any use for you any more,” Sherlock repeats.

Moriarty doesn't stop smiling, “What are you trying to play at?”

“Everything you’ve said,” Sherlock says, “Everything you’ve written in the last six months is true. Except for one crucial little detail.” He takes another step forward and one of the dots from John’s chest swings towards Sherlock, “I never made Moriarty up. There’s no fake criminal.”

John can see the moment when it dawns on Moriarty.

“I am Moriarty,” Sherlock says.

Moriarty is fully grinning now, “Oh but this is fun.”

“I have no use for Richard Brook any longer,” Sherlock says, and he’s addressing the gunmen this time.

Nobody moves. Moriarty leans forward. Sherlock just smiles.

“I sent a request for six gunmen this afternoon at two-fifty PM,” Sherlock says, looking around at the gunmen, “You had to drive down from London because your brethren from Sussex are attending a funeral for Philip’s dead wife. She was murdered two weeks ago by her brother, who you’ve been searching for but haven’t found yet. The only reason you’re here today is because five months ago I shipped a stolen painting out of Ireland for your patriarch and only asked for the free mobilization of gunmen at any point I requested.”

“Oh,” Moriarty breathes, “Very good.”

“Two months ago you were in a border dispute with another family. I helped you out by sending one of my operatives to poison their son. With their figurehead gone, they crumbled easily and you were able to gain control of their territory.”

The smile on Moriarty’s face starts to look crazed.

Sherlock looks at Moriarty, “I went to Shanghai five days ago to talk to my second-in-command. Unfortunately, I didn't reach him in time. He seemed to have been involved in an fatal accident.”

Moriarty’s face changes to enraged in an instant. “Shoot him!” he screams. It echoes across the court.

Nobody moves.

Sherlock pulls a phone out of his pocket and barely glances at it to hit the send button.

“I have no need for you any more, Richard Brook,” he says, looking back at Moriarty.

There are six answering beeps from around the room.

And one by one, the red dots move to Moriarty.

_____

They are still alive.

_____

“I want a cigarette,” Sherlock mumbles as they sit on the front steps of the sports centre. John presses his leg against Sherlock’s.

The winter wind sweeps in through the open doors. Moriarty lies dead in a pool of his own blood.

_____

John is too tired to feel any anger or fear when they see Mycroft approaching.

“Sherlock,” He says, “John.”

“Moriarty’s inside,” Sherlock says, “He’s dead. Two cameras in the ceiling. I'm sure if you ask nicely enough, the headmaster will give you the footage.”

“Let’s go home,” Mycroft says. Sherlock raises his eyes to look his brother in the face.

“Will you let us?”

_____

“I paid the rent at your flat for the last six months,” Mycroft says, as they drive back to London, “I thought you would want it back when you were done.”

“You’re just—” John says, “You’re just letting us come back.”

“Well, you’re going to have to give us more details about what you found. And you’ll have to tell us how to decrypt the contents of that computer,” Mycroft says, “And there’s probably going to be a lot of paperwork for you to fill out.”

“How tedious,” Sherlock says, but it lacks his usual bite.

“But you’ve performed a great service for your country,” Mycroft continues, “It would hardly be fair to treat you like common criminals.”

“You can’t make exceptions—” John starts.

“Do shut up John,” Sherlock mutters.

“I can and I have,” Mycroft says.

John shuts his mouth. This is—this is too good to be true.

“I can only keep them off your back for so long,” Mycroft says, “So please rest as much as you can.”

_____

They arrive at 221B. John stares at the familiar street through the window.

They’re back. They’re actually back.

“Four police cars?” Sherlock asks as they come to a halt, “Why don’t you just invite Lestrade in for tea?”

“They're for your protection,” Mycroft replies.

Sherlock opens the door and gets out of the car. Mycroft stops the door from being closed when Sherlock moves to shut it. He looks up at Sherlock and says, “I really am very sorry.”

Sherlock looks at him. He shuts the door. Mycroft lets him.

“Listen,” John says, “I need your help finding a girl. She’s probably eleven and her name is Hong-mei. She immigrated from Hong Kong a few years ago.”

Mycroft smiles. It’s tight and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll help you find her, John. We can talk more about this tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” John says and gets out of the car.

_____

Sherlock stands in their kitchen looking at the experiment he abandoned half a year ago. John opens the curtains to let in the light.

“We’re back,” Sherlock says.

“Bit dustier than I remembered.”

“Sometimes,” Sherlock says, “I didn’t think we’d make it.”

“Good thing I was there to force you to eat,” John says, trying for light-hearted, “God knows you would have withered away on your own.”

“John,” Sherlock says. He’s smiling.

“Welcome home,” John says, smiling back.

**Author's Note:**

> [Photoset by Robin](http://augustbird.tumblr.com/post/25051274052/capes-im-making-the-right-decision-arent)


End file.
